Misspent Youth

  “So?”

  Lucy Duke’s humor was fading. “Tim, these people are evil and violent. You need protection from them. The Europol officers won’t interfere with your life.”

  “You mean they’ll help me score my synth8?”

  Sue almost laughed out loud at the appalled expression on the spin doctor’s face. “Do you know how much your father’s treatment has cost the federal government?” Lucy Duke asked curtly.

  “I’m not sure. How about: the price of the prime minister getting elected president of Europe?”

  “That has absolutely nothing to do with this,” the now furious young woman said.

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Look. All right. I know you don’t want me or any of us here, but we are here and we’re staying. And that’s because of your father’s treatment. Please don’t pretend you didn’t want him to be treated. Just think of us as the price you have to pay for getting him back.”

  “Fine. Move in here with us then, I don’t care. I’m not having a bodyguard.” He slithered around her and took the stairs two at a time.

  “You are,” Lucy said firmly. “They will be with you when you leave the house tomorrow morning.”

  Tim might have grunted a reply; it was difficult to tell. He stalked off along the landing. His door slammed shut.

  “Told you so,” Sue murmured dryly.

  “Oh my God,” Lucy exclaimed. “I wasn’t briefed on this situation. Is he like that all the time?”

  “Not at all. Sometimes he can be a real pain in the ass.”

  THE JET SKI WAS A TWENTY-YEAR-OLD KARUDA, sleek silver and purple bodywork wrapped around a powerful marine combustion engine. Quite why his father had bought it, Tim never knew. He certainly couldn’t remember the machine ever being used. His mother hadn’t been able to shed any light on the mystery other than saying: “Probably a midlife crisis.”

  It had spent most of two decades stored in a polyethylene bubble in one of the manor’s many fusty outbuildings. Then Tim and his friends had decided to resurrect it for some fun when the warm weather arrived in April. They carried it over to the stable, which had been converted into a workshop for the gardener, and stripped the protective polyethylene off. The bodywork had lost its luster over the intervening years, but the engine had been well oiled before it was cocooned. Now the streamlined machine was clamped on top of a long carpentry bench with a frame of crude wood. Body panels had been removed, exposing the framework, and various dismantled parts were lying around it. The engine was held upright in its own clamp, allowing them to strip it down as best they could.

  On Saturday morning they all gathered around to do a couple of hours’ work on it before going out. A big old flat polycrystal screen was fixed to the wall behind the bench, displaying the engine’s service manual. Tim and Martin were looking at it, trying to match the neat drawings to the oily metal components they were attempting to reassemble onto the block.

  “I’m surprised they’re not in here with you now,” Simon said. He was sitting on a battered old leather sofa at the other end of the workshop, below a big poster of Stephanie Romane wearing her UK team beach volleyball costume and a lot of body oil. “Then they can make sure we’re conforming to Brussels working practice directives.”

  “Piss off,” Tim snapped. Europol had been guarding him for a week now. The first few days eluding the bodyguards had been fun. Martin and Colin had helped out quite a bit. He’d sent encrypted avtxts to all his friends, formulating elaborate plans. On the first day he started off walking to the bus stop as usual, then Simon had zoomed by on his e-trike and Tim hopped onto the back. The officer had yelled frantically into the mic on his PCglasses, and the team’s BMW 25 series had pulled out of the White Horse pub’s parking lot within thirty seconds. But Simon drove off down the old Exton road, which Rutland Council had classified as D-status and no longer had a tarmac surface. The Europol car couldn’t cope with the narrow limestone and moss track, and had to abandon pursuit.

  They were waiting stony-faced for him when he walked into his first lesson. Surrounded by laughing friends, Tim just waved impudently. When he arrived home in the evening, Lucy Duke was waiting with a lecture about ingratitude. He listened a few seconds, then asked her to order Chinese takeout for him. “You’re a public servant, aren’t you? So serve.” The contortions on her face as she had struggled to keep her temper were hysterical.

  On the second day a four-wheel-drive Range Rover AT was parked conspicuously in front of the pub. It followed the bus closely. Tim waited until they reached Whitwell, then bailed out of the bus’s rear emergency exit. Colin was waiting by the church with his trail bike. They zoomed off down the nature route footpath and through the wood, where the Range Rover couldn’t follow.

  A Europol captain was sent out from the Nottingham office to give the protection team a dressing-down about being outwitted by a teenage boy. The captain and Lucy Duke then spent a fruitless half hour pleading with Sue Baker. The whole Europol team hated Tim after that, and didn’t bother to hide the fact.

  Tim hadn’t tried to give them the slip for several days, although there were quite a few strategies he hadn’t tried yet. It was just that actually doing it was such a lot of effort. In any case, Natalie Cherbun, a twenty-five-year-old French officer, had been reassigned from his mother to his day guard duty. Not that Tim liked her, obviously, but she was rather easy to look at.

  “They’re going to be a problem when we take this thing out,” Colin declared as he threaded the new clutch cable through the handlebars.

  “No,” Tim said irritably. “They won’t be.”

  “Your gestapo mates are supposed to keep you from harm. They’ll be with us the whole time, and they’ll stop you using it.”

  “They’re not my mates, and I can use this whenever the fuck I want.”

  “But they’ll be there.”

  “Watching, that’s all.”

  “God, Tim, they’re just trouble,” Simon said.

  Tim clamped his teeth together and pretended to study the diagram on the big screen for a moment. There had been a lot of verbal acrimony between him and Simon since the party. “I can handle them. Can’t you?”

  “I shouldn’t have to handle them, that’s the thing.”

  Tim turned to face him. Simon was sprawled on the ramshackle sofa, as usual. He never did much actual work on the Jet Ski, just hung around while everyone else got their hands dirty. “You got something else on your mind?”

  “Like what?”

  “I dunno. Me and Annabelle?” It had been going quite well between them during the last week, despite the clinging presence of his bodyguards. At school they’d started to sit together at meals, and were now spending time together in the afternoon. On Thursday she’d come back to the manor with him so they could study in the evening. Tonight she was coming along with them to Stamford. Every week—except when there were parties at someone’s house—a group of them would tour the town’s clubs and then grab a kebab before the last bus home at one-thirty.

  “That doesn’t bother me in the slightest.” He gave Tim a defiant smile. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  For an instant Simon looked vulnerable. “You know why I dumped her?”

  “She dumped you.”

  “Crap! If that’s what she told you, she’s lying. I ended it. I thought it couldn’t be better. Then…” He shook his head as if to throw off the memory.

  “What?” Tim demanded.

  “Nothing.”

  “She finally got your number,” Colin taunted. “Told you she’d hear about you bragging about how much you bonked her. They always do. It’s like telepathy or something.”

  Simon gave Tim a straight look. “She comes over all confident, like she’s lived a dozen lives. But she’s dependent. I think she’s really insecure. The really beautiful ones always are. It means she can switch on you like that.” He clicked her fingers.
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  “Bollocks,” Tim said. “You blew it, that’s all.”

  “Not me. She went and shagged my brother.”

  “Derek?”

  “Yeah. I told you, she’s a real slut.”

  Tim clenched his fists, giving Simon a hard stare. “You what?”

  “All right, sorry, not a slut. But she did shag him. That’s when I dumped her.”

  “You lying piece of shit,” Tim said. He was furious that Simon would dare say anything bad about Annabelle. There was going to be blood spilt over this, even though he didn’t really know how to fight.

  “He’s jealous,” Colin told Tim, trying to calm things down. “That’s all. Just ignore him.”

  “I’m not jealous,” Simon insisted. “What you and she get up to doesn’t bother me at all. Why should it? I’m on to fresh pastures now.”

  Tim eyed one of the big wrenches, wondering what it would look like sticking out of Simon’s head. Good, he expected.

  “Who?” Martin challenged.

  “Rachel, if you must know.”

  “Crap. She’s going out with Nigel.”

  “Not anymore. She’s coming to Stamford with me tonight. And we’re going to the Summer Ball together.”

  “Jesus, you’ve got a date for that already?” a worried Colin asked.

  “Durr. It’s only the biggest event we’ve got left at Oakham. And it’s only six weeks away. Only total wanker losers don’t have anyone to go with. Haven’t you asked Vanessa yet?”

  Colin and Tim swapped a mildly apprehensive glance. Tim knew this was all being done to distract him from smashing Simon into a pulp, but even so…

  “I was going to ask Danielle, actually,” Colin said.

  “Buzzt. Wrong answer. Philip’s taking her.”

  “Shit! You’re kidding.”

  Always happy to supply bad news, Simon smiled broadly. “He said he was asking her, he told me. If you’re desperate you could always ask Sophie; after all she’s not likely to have a male date, and we’re supposed to take a member of the opposite sex. How’s that for political incorrectness?”

  Tim ignored the jibe about Sophie—that rumor had been flying for a long time now. He was wondering if it was too early to ask Annabelle if she’d go to the ball with him. It was the senior year’s last big social event. That put a lot of pressure on people to take part, and to do that you had to be a couple. Tim had two friends who’d made pacts with girls almost a year ago to go together. They weren’t dating or involved; they were just making sure they got in.

  “Maybe I should ask Vanessa,” Colin muttered.

  “You’re thinking of dumping Vanessa because she’s got tiny tits, aren’t you?” Martin said. “I know you.”

  “So? She’s still a good laugh. I like her.”

  “I thought you two were getting on all right,” Tim said.

  “We are. It’s just I didn’t know Danielle was going with someone else.”

  “Well, Zai’s certainly free these days,” Simon said. “Try asking her.”

  Colin pulled a face. “I don’t think she likes me.”

  “She never said that,” Tim assured him.

  “And she’s certainly got bigger tits than Vanessa,” Martin said.

  “Will you pack that in!” Colin said. “I don’t just go for their tits.”

  “’Course not. There’s legs to consider as well.”

  “Fuck off. Hey Tim, have they told you when your dad’s out yet?”

  “Oh my,” Simon called out. “Did someone change the subject? It was all done so smoothly I can’t tell.”

  “Four days,” Tim said. Lucy Duke had told them last night. It was the first time he’d spoken to her for more than thirty seconds, but he was desperate for every detail. The prospect of his father’s return left him elated and apprehensive at the same time. “We’ve got to take the Eurostar train over to Brussels on Tuesday. There’s going to be a big press briefing. The prime minister and the president will be there and everything.”

  “Bloody hell,” Martin exclaimed. “You’re going to meet them?”

  “Suppose so.”

  “Well, make sure you tell them what we all think of them.”

  TIM HAD BEEN GIVEN the Honda e-trike for his sixteenth birthday. It was powered by a three-cell regenerator module, which gave it a top speed of eighty kilometers per hour; on a full tank of recombined electrolyte its range was six hundred fifty kilometers. The manor’s garage, with its solar panel roof and domestic regenerator module buried under the concrete floor, was capable of supplying enough electricity to keep three big cars running all year round. An e-trike barely registered on the supply monitor. Not that Tim used it much during the winter months: Riding in the icy insistent rain was difficult and dangerous. Now that April was here, ending the succession of miserable damp days that comprised England’s new wintertime, he was taking it out again.

  It took him barely ten minutes to ride over to Manton on Sunday morning, and that was using the shabby D-class roads linking the villages around the vast reservoir, the Europol team following a constant hundred meters behind in their Ranger. Manton was perched on the brow of the slope above Rutland Water’s eastern shore. What once had been a small village had been bolstered over the last four decades by a sprawl of extensive houses that all looked out over the water. They were primarily retirement estates, closed and protected from the rest of the world by a solid foundation of wealth, providing for every domestic and health requirement.

  Tim’s aunt Alison lived there. She’d bought a two-bedroom bungalow, one of the smallest homes on the estate, but with the best view across to the reservoir’s peninsula. Tim braked the e-trike beside the wide gates that guarded the entrance to the estate and flashed his identity smartcard at the sensor post. They swung open slowly, and he drove in past the sign warning that Livewire Security guarded the estate with an armed response team. The Ranger slid in behind him.

  Every house along the avenue had an immaculate garden, as if that was a clause of occupancy. This season’s daffodils and tulips were in full flower, carpeting the borders between perfectly geometrical GM conifers that came in an astonishing variety of colors. Jet-black, hemispherical mower robots grazed slowly on the lawns, the only source of activity while the residents sat around on their patios, warding off the sunlight with big canvas parasols. They were all over fifty, their skin and hair belonging to people twenty years younger. It was their movements, methodical and considered, that gave away their age. That and what Tim regarded as a truly awful dress sense—circa nineteen fifties golfers—which seemed to afflict the whole community.

  There was a small burgundy-red BMW 23 series parked on Aunt Alison’s drive. Tim pulled up behind it and locked the e-trike. He had his helmet under his arm as he rang the doorbell.

  “Tim!” his aunt exclaimed as she swung the door back. Her eyes narrowed as she saw the Europol team in their Ranger. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? Oh.” A palm slapped theatrically against her forehead. “You did. Didn’t you? Come in, darling. Sorry about the mess. Do the police have to come in with you?”

  “No,” Tim said firmly.

  Aunt Alison was his father’s sister, ten years younger and, as far as Tim was concerned, a lot more lively. She had the huskiest voice he’d ever heard; a gin-and-forty-cigarettes-a-day voice, his mother called it. Her whole easygoing attitude, her casual old-fashioned dress sense (though infinitely superior to that of her neighbors), and complete lack of domesticity made it plain to Tim that she’d had one hell of a good time when she was younger—and not so young, as well. He really liked Aunt Alison; they’d always got on well together, mainly because she always seemed to treat him like an equal. The one time he’d run out of the manor, age thirteen and after a particularly bad fight with his mother, this was where he instinctively headed.

  “Are we going out for lunch?” Alison asked as she led him through the chaos that was her living room. Every wall was covered in big stainless-steel poster fram
es, holding blowups of the fantasy books she used to write. Nubile women in brass bikinis—or less—clung to bronzed, muscle-bound men as they fought off wyrms and goblin hordes with magic glowing swords; gloomy forests and dark castles tended to feature heavily in the background. The scenes had always inspired Tim when he was younger. He’d even loyally read a couple of Alison’s books, though he preferred straight science fiction himself.

  “No. I was just coming to see you about dad and next Tuesday.”

  “Oh right.” Alison went out onto the patio. “You remember Graham, don’t you, Tim?”

  “Sure.”

  Graham Joyce was sitting in one of the sunloungers. He leaned forward and gave Tim a firm handshake. “Tim, greetings and salutations.” For a man in his eighties he retained a remarkably vigorous air, possessing a gaunt face that genoprotein treatments had never quite managed to soften and a shock of unruly snow-white hair. His voice was like a forceful foghorn.

  Tim smiled. “Hiya.” The old novelist was one of his favorite adults, even more disreputable than Alison, if such a thing were possible. Graham had won the last Booker Prize, back in 2012, as the publishing houses collapsed in tandem with the copyright laws. That didn’t make him as famous as Jeff Baker; these days novelists belonged to the same chunk of history as Hollywood and rock and roll, but Tim had plenty of respect for Graham. It was more than just the elder statesman thing; he always spoke with such passion that it was impossible to doubt what he said.

  “What are you two cooking up?” Tim asked.

  “Murder! Revolution! Martyrdom!” Graham chuckled, a sound like an aggressive avalanche. “Going to join us?”

  “I’ll give it a miss, thanks. I’m seeing my girlfriend later.”

  “How is Zai?” Alison asked.

  Tim winced. “Annabelle.”

  “God, you’re as bad as your father,” Alison said. She settled back into her own sunlounger and picked up a tall glass of gin and tonic. “I remember what he was like back in the seventies and eighties. Not that the nineties were much better. I had to be very careful about introducing him to my girlfriends. He tried to get most of them into bed.”