Misspent Youth (4 page)

It wasn’t just the straight medical pharmaceutical companies that had benefited from the genome decoding projects of the nineties and noughties. There had been a long period of corporate mergers and buyouts early in the millennium, as pharmaceutical, biochemical, and cosmetic companies fused into the new economy giants that they were today. Successful and worthy genetic treatments to counter and cure appalling diseases by the use of powerful vectoring technology to deliver improved genes directly to individual cells had swiftly been adapted to insert genes that made more subtle cellular improvements.

Skin was the first area to come under scrutiny, of course. Vitality, firmness, and the eradication of wrinkles had been the goals of the cosmetics trade since human prehistory, as it attempted to infuse that elusive healthy glow so nonchalantly possessed by adolescents. Now for the first time it was possible at least to slow down normal epidermal decay with a huge array of new-genes-for-old elixirs that could target particular cells and layers. The market for such products was astonishing, almost as much as their cost.

Jeff had always been condescending when she used the dermal genoprotein treatments, and he constantly grumbled about the price of them. He claimed she was far too young to be using the stuff. But not even genoproteins could actually turn back the clock. So the sooner she used them, the easier it would be for the treatments to maintain her. Today her skin had the glossy vigor of a twenty-five-year-old’s precisely because she began using the genoprotein when she was twenty-three. Two years’ apparent physical aging in fifteen chronological years. Oh yes, it was worth the money, no matter how much he grouched and cursed.

Skin and its texture, though, provided merely the first of the new products to emerge from the biogenetic laboratories. Men might have claimed not to care quite so much about their wrinkles and liver spots, but when it came to receding hairlines male vanity knew no bounds—nor cost barrier. Follicle genoprotein sales levels were second only to those of skin treatments.

Sue used only the very best of both, along with similar treatments for nails and teeth, and most definitely anticellulites targeting her hips and thighs. To be on the safe side she also used bone and muscle treatments, and a very specific group of genoproteins to prevent her breast tissue from becoming flaccid (the second most popular purchase for women after skin genoprotein). She’d never used the treatment to stimulate breast growth—there was a suspected link to cancer blooms, although most women ignored that. One of the reasons she’d never quite made it to supermodel status was her generous bust size.

All of her treatments were supervised and administered by a private hospital in Stamford devoted to bodyform courses. As they were combined with a wholesome diet which she stuck to with iron discipline, and a fitness regimen which impressed even the gym staff, her appearance was locked permanently in her midtwenties. Despite every miserable day, emotional and financial letdowns, arguments with Tim and with Jeff, bad holidays, depressing news reports, her mother’s frail condition, and faithless lovers, she could always look at herself in the mirror and be utterly satisfied with what she saw. Not only was she a match for any of the girls currently cavorting around the swimming pool in their skimpy costumes, but thanks to her modeling experience she had a much better dress sense than the lot of them put together. Men appreciated that.

Tim’s friends left around seven, catching the Rutland Circuit bus back to Oakham. He simply grinned and nodded to Annabelle as she and Sophie waved good-bye.

“So what happened to Zai?” Sue asked after the door closed behind them.

“Oh, er, she couldn’t make it.”

She tried not to smile. Even after eighteen years of upbringing by her and Jeff, he made a bad liar. “Okay, Tim.”

He gave her a curious look, then shrugged. “Got some course work to finish. I’ll be upstairs.”

Lucy Duke cleared her throat. Both Tim and Sue turned to look at her as she stood at the bottom of the stairs.

“Hi there, Tim. I’m afraid I need to talk to you about security arrangements,” Lucy said. Her carefully casual attitude made her sound incredibly patronizing.

“What about them?”

Even Sue was impressed by how quickly he slid from reasonable human being to petulant teenage grouch.

“Well, as you know, we’ve been installing several new systems around the house in anticipation of your father’s return. And there are some further requirements we need to implement.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. You see, it’s not just his safety we need to consider. The whole family is included.”

“You mean me?”

“Absolutely. I’m afraid the Separatists aren’t particularly pleasant, nor choosy about the people they target.”

Tim slouched and sneered at the same time. “I know. I put myself on their newstxt subscription list.”

“I see.” Lucy Duke’s mouth tightened slightly. “Tim, this is a little more involved than a few student revolutionary slogans.”

“You got something against students?”

“Not at all. But the people that Lieutenant Krober and his team are concerned about can be a serious problem.”

“Only to foreigners who steal our taxes and oppress us.”

“Tim, we’re assigning you a bodyguard.”

“Don’t want one.”

“I appreciate that this is difficult.” She smiled bravely. “And it won’t be very, um, cool, for this to happen at school, will it. I’m sorry about that, but we wouldn’t do it unless we thought it was essential. Your mother’s having one as well.”

“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.”

T
HE
J
ET
S
KI WAS A TWENTY-YEAR-OLD
K
ARUDA
, 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.

“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.”