Misspent Youth (33 page)

L
UCY
D
UKE WAS WAITING
in the lobby when the elevator doors opened. Krober must have called ahead to warn her when they were all on their way down.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked.

“Leaving.” Jeff hopped onto the pedwalk, with Annabelle at his side.

Lucy and the three bodyguards followed him on. “You’re crazy. Nobody’s allowed out.”

“It’s a free coun—Oh, no, it isn’t anymore, is it?” He smiled ingratiatingly at her.

“Why are you doing this? Where are you going?”

“To collect my son. He’s out there with the others, and your lot have just called in the storm troopers.”

For once Lucy’s composure cracked at the mention of Tim, and she grimaced in annoyance. “All right, look, let me see what I can do. There are undercover officers out there; they can take him to safety.”

“Don’t you get it? It has to be me. I’m the real reason he’s out there.”

“Suppose someone recognizes you.”

“With the way you’ve handled my profile, I’d be amazed if there’s anyone left out there who doesn’t.”

“You can’t leave. You can’t. That’s giving in to them, whatever personal reasons you might have. This is what you are, this summit, the superconductor project.”

Jeff turned and gave her a sad little smile. “But it’s not what I want to be.”

T
HE CAMERA CREWS
covering the confrontation on the Connaught Bridge found them almost at once. A little knot of disturbance behind the police line, slowly moving forward toward the front rank, where officers were crouched down behind their shields. Lenses zoomed in to see Jeff pushing past the furious officers; Annabelle had her arms around his waist, almost as if she was being towed along behind. In unison, a dozen news anchors yelped: “That’s Jeff Baker.”

Jeff had to force himself along, every centimeter of the way. It was like being trapped inside a perpetual rugby scrum. Every time he shoved another policeman to one side he was screamed at.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

“Piss off, dickhead.”

Awkwardly held batons thumped painfully into his sides. He kept banging his head against the wide helmet collars as officers turned to see what was happening.

“Fucking moron, what are you doing?”

The air was heavy with the stench of burnt rubber, mixed with a stronger, more acidic smell: gas. He practically gagged each time he took a breath. His eyes were already smarting, big tears making everything smeary. Something landed on the helmet of the police officer next to him. The man swore as the plastic bottle shattered, drenching him in warm urine. “Little shits, I’m gonna kill me one later.”

Jeff used a sleeve to wipe the disgusting fluid from his face. The edge of a riot shield smacked across his shin. He held in the squawk of pain, trying to tough it out for Annabelle’s sake. He could feel her arms shaking badly as she clung to him.

Abruptly there was no more resistance. He’d reached the front row. Police were crouched before him, holding their overlapping shields firm against the tarmac like an ancient army of pikemen. In front of the scuffed and stained plastic was about twenty meters of road, empty apart from the litter of missiles. Then there were the protestors, an ever-moving row of youths with their heads covered in balaclavas or makeshift scarves. They taunted and chanted as they ran a few paces forward in challenge before scuttling back to be absorbed by the mass. There was always someone in the act of flinging an object at the police, sending it in a high arc over the resolute barrier of shields.

It wouldn’t be long until another full-on clash, Jeff knew. The distance between the two sides was already closing.

“Now,” he called out to Annabelle. He stepped over the crouched policeman, shoving the shields aside like some kind of jammed door.

“Hey, what the fuck—”

A big gauntlet closed around Jeff’s shoulder. He snapped his head around and stared directly into the goggles of a big policeman who’d grabbed him, seeing the confusion in the other’s eyes. “Take your hand off me, sonny boy, or I’ll smash your teeth so far down your throat you’ll be eating with your ass.” The fingers lost their grip. Probably due to surprise rather than the threat, Jeff reckoned.

Jeff stepped out through the gap in the shield. It was one of those moments where a single rational thought would have sent him racing back behind the police, desperate for sanctuary. Instead, he just made sure Annabelle got clear all right, then started to walk, striding along as if this was the most normal thing in the world.

It was only when he’d covered half the distance that he realized what he was actually doing, and muttered: “Oh shit, oh shit.” The youths ahead were the kind he’d spent most of his adult life trying to avoid. Hard-faced and cruel, brought up on some terrifying lawless sink estate, they’d stab him for a single euro. Meeting one was every middle-class boy’s nightmare.

“Jeff?” Annabelle called.

“Nothing, it’s okay.”

Someone up ahead pointed. “Oi, it’s Jeff Baker.” The name rumbled along the crowd like a small roll of thunder.

Jeff directed a modest shrug toward them. Quite a few people were staring at him now. He was closing the gap quickly, not giving them any time to react, keeping them off balance. The strategy seemed to work: He could see a lot of puzzled frowns above the bright triangles of cloth they wore over their lower faces.

Just before he reached the first of them, he turned around. With a broad grin, he raised a single stiff finger to the massed ranks of the now-silent riot police.

Cheers and whoops of delight rolled out from the protestors; several of them started clapping. Someone flung their arms around Jeff in greeting. More hands slapped him on the back. Annabelle was kissed several times. Dozens of people crowded around, wanting to say hello, to welcome him, to say thank you. “We knew you were all right, Jeff.” “You’re one of us, mate.” “This’ll show the bastards.”

They made their way slowly through the protestors, an osmotic process gradually filtering them away from the front and along the bridge. It was like some campaign rally; he had to shake hands with everyone they passed, to smile and say how much their cause meant to him. He’d never realized the bridge was so long.

Angry shouting broke out behind him. The distinctive dull
thud
of tear gas canisters reverberated through the late afternoon sky. Jeff and Annabelle both flinched, ducking down. Nobody was paying attention to them anymore. The conflict had resumed.

“Come on.” Jeff took her hand and they jogged away from the disturbance. With the other hand he fumbled his PCglasses on, and called Tim.

“You did it,” Tim cried down the link. “You really did it.”

Jeff dodged aside of a team of ten or so men with intent faces hurrying toward the skirmish; they looked like military types to him. “Of course I did it. Now where are you?”

They managed to find each other by shouting locations and directions in a farcical manner. Jeff would have laughed at how bizarre it was, not a hundred meters away and having to go: “Where? How far? Which way?” Except it was all too tragic for real humor.

Tim, Vanessa, Colin, Simon, and Rachel were all sheltering at the top of the circle’s slip road. Looking at them, Jeff remembered that last barbeque at the manor when they’d all fooled around in the pool and on the lawns. Happy youngsters keen for what the future might hold. It was as if a decade had passed. Tim’s hair was greasy, plastered down on his skull. Misty green dye had settled on his clothes in long streaks, staining his neck and fingers; a long smear covered his nose where he’d wiped a hand. His eyes were dark and very tired. Even his fancy Hi-shot PCglasses were bent.

He managed a forlorn little smile when Jeff and Annabelle emerged through the running throng. Jeff gave him a quick hug. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks.” Tim was reluctant to let go; he held up his PCglasses. “We watched it, all of us. Every news stream showed you walking across. I couldn’t believe it.”

“You’ve got balls of steel, Jeff,” Simon said, grinning with admiration. “I would never have done that.”

Jeff didn’t take his eyes off Tim. “I had to.”

“You really came. I…I don’t know what to say, Dad.” He peered around Jeff’s shoulder. “You too, Annabelle. Thanks.”

“Hi yourself, Tim.” She sounded as if she was about to burst into tears. Jeff put his arm around her, stroking in concern. Rachel was giving them a sardonic look, unnoticed by Simon.

“So, are you going to live up to your side of the deal?” Jeff asked.

“Yeah,” Tim said weakly. “None of this is what I expected.”

“Life never is, son.”

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

S
UE BUZZED THE OUTSIDE LOCK
as soon as she saw them on the porch’s CCTV monitor. She was waiting in the vestibule when the lift arrived. Jeff was first out. She gave him a quick smile, then looked anxiously behind him. Tim was standing there, looking exhausted. His clothes were filthy and messed up, with broad smears of green dye. She flung her arms around him and squeezed tight.

“I’m okay,” he said. “We’re all okay now.”

Sue nodded welcome to the other youngsters. The three girls looked wrecked. The boys weren’t much better. “Come on in,” she said.

Vanessa, Rachel, and Annabelle claimed the master bedroom with its en suite bathroom. Sue gave them a pile of her casual clothes, and found them some extra soap and shampoo, though she doubted that would be any good against the dye. The boys had taken over the biggest guest bedroom, and were soon larking about as they got ready to shower. She called at Tim through the door, telling him which wardrobe had his old clothes, and that he was to share them out. As she walked away she heard Colin and Simon joshing him about being told what to do by his mum. A secretive grin lifted her lips; it actually felt good looking after them all, as if she’d become some kind of earth mother.

She found Jeff in the kitchen, swigging down a bottle of premium-strength lager.

“That was quite something you did this afternoon,” she said.

He handed her a second bottle. She expertly snapped the top off against one of the granite work tops, then smiled, wishing Tim had seen her do that.

“Second scare he’s given me in a month,” Jeff said.

“First one you’ve given me in quite a while. I watched you on the news streams.”

“Have the government put their spin on that yet?”

“I think they’re a little busy blaming Brussels for the riot right now.”

“Never mind, I’m sure they’ll get round to it.”

“Everybody saw you, there’s not much they can change in people’s minds. And when they find out you did that because you were concerned about your son…You really could run for president, you know.”

“What a ghastly thought.”

“And Annabelle went with you. I’m going to have to revise my opinion about that one.”

Jeff took a big swig. “Go easy on her tonight, she’s had a hard time.”

“I wasn’t planning on being a bitch, Jeff.”

“I’m glad you were here.”

Sue raised her bottle in salute. “Me too.”

“Right then. Let’s get supper sorted, I’m starving. You have got proper food here, haven’t you, not just that delicatessen crap?”

Sue stuck her tongue out at him, and opened the freezer. Jeff chuckled appreciatively as they pulled the packets out.

Once the youngsters were all washed and dressed in clean dry clothes, they sat around the kitchen table and wolfed down sausages and eggs and potato fritters and spaghetti and garlic bread. “Nursery food,” Tim called it contentedly. “Thanks, Mum.”

Listening to all the banter and mild teasing going on around the table was almost like old times for Jeff. With one exception. Annabelle never left his side, and he could return the affection in front of Tim and Sue without any hesitation.

The big screen in the living room was switched to a news stream, and everyone settled in chairs or sprawled over cushions to watch. Jeff sat on the couch with Annabelle curled up beside him. She was nice and warm against his side. He was feeling the cold again, though the others all claimed the room was hot.

By eight-thirty the first squads of the Europol RSF had arrived from Paris, though none had yet been seen emerging from the trains. Cameras showed protestors retreating from the streets around Kings Cross. Rob Lacey appeared in Downing Street’s Rose Garden for a live press statement, claiming that the nihilists wrecking the streets of our great capital would be brought to justice no matter how long it took.

“They always say that,” Simon exclaimed. “Any sort of big crime gets committed, and politicians say exactly the same line every time. They never do it, though.”

By nine o’clock the Metropolitan Police had managed to escort fire engines to most of the blazes away from Docklands. There was coverage of the infernos raging through dozens of buildings, sending flames twisting high into the night sky. News streams competed against one another with dramatic shots of fire crews sending huge jets of foaming water through broken windows and crumbled masonry, trying to stop the spread. Some of the more hysterical reporters were talking about the Second Fire of London, a concept the authorities were eager to quash. Cameras lingered on the somber black ruins of buildings already burned out.

There was no official curfew, although Scotland Yard kept stressing that law-abiding citizens should not go outside.

The Brussels Parliament went into emergency session to debate the civil situation. Furious English EMPs rose to condemn foreign agitators for wrecking the capital, claiming it amounted to an invasion force. Continental EMPs protested at the use of such provocative, racist terms. Shouts and countershouts grew louder; objects were thrown across the seating tiers. The speaker called a recess so that tempers could calm.

At half past ten, more than three and a half thousand RSF officers had arrived at St. Pancras, along with their vehicles and equipment. They began to deploy through the city under the overall command of the Metropolitan Police chief in tandem with Europol’s senior commander. Downing Street and the Home Office made that quite clear from the start, promising their full support for whatever actions were necessary to bring the troublemakers to justice.

The RSF began to establish an isolation cordon around the outside of the University of East London campus. Big water cannon vehicles led the way down streets, high-pressure hoses washing away anyone who stood in front of them. Protestors were slammed to the ground as the water hit them, then pummeled over and over by the jets to lie semiconscious on the side of the road, where RSF officers picked them up and flung them into the prisoner containment carriers that were following the water cannons.

Just after midnight, Rachel and Vanessa announced they’d had enough, and went off to bed, tired by their strange, exhausting day, and depressed by the relentless bad news on the screen. Half an hour later Sue said she’d also seen enough. Jeff agreed, and said good night to the boys who were camping out in the living room.

He and Annabelle used the smaller of the guest bedrooms. They made love with the same kind of desperation and intensity as that first time in the car. Both of them were needy, demanding reassurance and physical comfort from each other. For once he didn’t have to bother with the Viagra; his body was as eager as hers.

They clung together afterward, trembling in relief, thankful that they had each other, both accepting that the day had brought them closer. The small screen on the wall played on silently, casting a wan gray-blue light across their bodies until Jeff finally drew the duvet over them.

In the small hours they saw that twelve thousand RSF troops, Europe’s total contingent, had surrounded the University of East London and Beckton Park. The entire campus was on fire, its elegant circular halls of residence burning like giant brick braziers, faculty buildings haloed by flame as curving roofs buckled and subsided.

The RSF advanced, taking a more continental approach to law enforcement than the exhausted Metropolitan Police they had replaced. Plastic baton rounds were fired directly at protestors, with ranges down to a near-lethal two meters. Any protestor unlucky enough to fall or stumble as the RSF closed in would be surrounded by black-clad officers wielding whiplike truncheons that pounded away until the body stopped moving. English civil rights activists appeared in the news stream studios demanding the arrest of the RSF commanders who authorized such illegal brutality. Snatch squads dragged bleeding, screaming protestors into prisoner containment carriers. Vivid flames from burning buildings and wrecked cars competed with blue and red emergency vehicle strobes to illuminate the shocking scenes in macabre flares of light.

Out of the bedlam in some nameless street in Beckton, the first gunshots of the conflict were heard. A chorus of screams followed. People surged in terror and panic, not knowing which way to flee. The air was thick with missiles and the stench of burning plastic. Two RSF officers lay prone on the pavement. Twenty cameras zoomed in for a close-up, showing the pools of blood slowly expanding across the tarmac. Enraged RSF troops charged into the nearest group of protestors. Lenses backed by light amplification circuitry followed their long steel-webbed truncheons as they rose and fell, striking at unprotected flesh with a hornet’s fury.

In another part of town, more shots were fired. Protestors and RSF lines clashed again and again.

“They have to give us a referendum now,” Annabelle said. “Look what’s happening because they don’t care about us.”

Jeff turned to look at her face; the faint light from the screen revealed only placid features. “That’s not Brussels bureaucrats out there burning the streets.”

“They’re the cause, ultimately. I hate them. Why can’t they leave us alone? Why can’t we make our own decisions? None of those rioters would be allowed in the country if we were in charge of ourselves again.”

“Funny thing. They all hate Brussels as much as we do.”

“Then they should go and burn Brussels down, not London.”

“I expect they will, eventually,” Jeff said.

D
AWN REVEALED
numerous bodies lying in the street. RSF officers given traitor’s pensions, civilians battered to death. Their ignominy was the same in the wan light. Over a hundred fifty burnt-out buildings sent up thin streamers of rancid smoke as firemen waded through their sodden interiors to begin safe securement procedures. Special courts were convened to process and charge everyone the RSF had arrested. Politicians flocked into early morning news studios, all of them managing to condemn the way Europol had behaved, pointing out how little difference there was between them and the foreign marauders. First cost estimates of the damage to the city were in the range of ten billion euros. Both the mayor and prime minister demanded that the Central Treasury pay for it all; after all, most of the damage had been caused by continental citizens. President Jean Brèque promised to consider any such request sympathetically. Such vagueness was eagerly seized upon by his opponents as further evidence of his administration’s laxity.

Over forty thousand protestors were still camped out amid the ruins of the university campus. They were surrounded by seven thousand RSF troops, who waited patiently for them to surrender, their orders now to simply starve them out of the smoldering desolation that they had created. It took another three days until the last die-hard activists were hauled away in prisoner containment carriers. The political blame-throwing went on for a great deal longer.