Misspent Youth

35. THE LAST FAREWELL BARBEQUE

MRS. MAYBERRY HAD MADE THE BURGERS, using her own special recipe involving lots of fresh herbs and Aberdeen Angus beef. Jeff had them piled up on a big plate next to the six-burner gas-fired barbeque. He shouted out to the youngsters on the lawn who were finishing off the rounders match, asking them what sauces they wanted. Mrs. Mayberry had provided him with a selection of those as well—chili, honey and lemon, hot barbeque, and something she called sticky smoke. Jeff used his oversize tongs to dip the burgers into the deep bowls of sauce before dropping them on the grid above the glowing lava rocks. While he was dealing with the first batch, the Europol team called in their preferences. Smoke spat and sizzled upward from the meat.

The pork ribs came next, picked out of the sweet and sour marinade. Then it was the sausages, whole ribbons of them. By the time it was all cooking away he hoped the Environment Agency mobile pollution monitor van wasn’t cruising the village for clean air violations. He was having to stand well back as the acrid scents mixed into a single plume and started to make his eyes water.

“Another beer, uh, Jeff?” Colin asked. He was peering in the big fridge just inside the pool building’s door.

“Sounds good, thanks.” He took the can from the smiling youngster. “What’s the score?”

“Ah, we’re winning easy. Boys, eighteen. Girls, five, so far, and they’ve only got two bats left.”

Jeff had taken his turn batting earlier. It was decided he could get on with the cooking when it was the boys’ turn to field; one less on the team would even the odds, so the girls claimed.

Lorraine took a mighty swipe at the ball that Tim threw, and knocked it down to the far end of the garden. Philip watched it soar over his head in amazement, and belatedly gave chase. All the girls were running fast between the posts, shouting encouragement to one another. The boys directed a barrage of abuse at the hapless Philip.

“Go, you moron!” Colin yelled.

“We’ll still walk it,” Jeff said. He twisted the plastic tab on the top of his can, and gulped down an icy mouthful. It had been a great afternoon. None of the youngsters had minded him joining in when they were splashing around in the pool. That invitation was extended to the croquet game and then the rounders. Jeff hadn’t played croquet for twenty years. It was fun remembering all the dirty tricks. Anybody who believed that croquet was a civilized sport had clearly never played before. It was fun playing rounders, too. And sinking highballs of Pimms. Everyone was in their swimsuits. Having the girls bounding past, bodies barely contained in the thin fabric of their swimsuits and bikinis, was a blissful addition to the afternoon’s delight.

It just needed Annabelle to make it perfect. More than anything, he wanted here there, sharing in the exuberance of this lazy sunny afternoon. The youngsters were more her friends than his, after all. But this was Tim’s party, a farewell for all his friends. Jeff had actually seen the boy smiling as he lined up to pitch the ball, finally shaking off the terrible moods that had dominated his days since the summer ball. Balancing the happiness of three people was a profoundly difficult act. Jeff kept wondering how long it could be before he and Annabelle could actually tell Tim about them.

Quite a while, if I know Tim.

Boys won the rounders, eighteen to eight. A raggedy chorus of Queen’s “We Are the Champions” filled the garden.

“Two minutes,” Jeff called.

The youngsters went to find sweatshirts and cardigans now that the sun was sinking lower, then grabbed themselves plates and lined up by the barbeque. Jeff was kept busy dishing the meat out. There were so many burgers on the grill, he’d completely forgotten which ones had which sauce on them.

Jeff overhead one remark Martin made to Tim as the boys sat down together. “Anyone who has a whole fridge just for beer is okay by me.” Which made him smile. The manor had been built with exactly this kind of afternoon in mind; a big lawn and a swimming pool were essentials for Jeff. Although his parents had been comfortably-off professionals, they’d lived in a town house with a very small garden. He’d been envious of all his childhood friends out in the villages with their wide, open lawns to run around on.

Not that he’d ever expected to benefit from the manor; it had always been for Tim. Now though, twenty years late, he could enjoy it for himself, too, along with all the other things he’d never found time for before. The new car was a good example.

“Is there anything left you’d like to do, Jeff?” Simon asked. “I mean, this time around? Something you missed out on before?”

The talk had been about coming holidays and their futures after that, what they most wanted to achieve or see.

Jeff shoveled the last couple of burgers onto his plate, and went over to sit beside Tim. “Actually, there is one thing I’ve really wanted to do ever since I was six years old.”

All the youngsters fell silent, watching him closely.

He shrugged at them. “Sorry, it’s not particularly important, just something I fancy.”

“What?” Tim asked curiously.

“I’ve always wanted to go into space. Not those little semiballistic lobs they sell in America and the Caribbean. I want to see the Earth from orbit. Just look down and watch the whole planet roll past underneath me.”

There were a lot of sighs from around the patio. Several of the youngsters nodded sympathetic agreement.

“Comes from an astronaut fixation when I was a kid. That and the fact I grew up in the era of the Apollo program. I mean, I really did expect to be taking holidays on the moon by the year 2000. All the Sunday newspaper magazines around back in the early seventies were full of articles about how easy spaceflight would become right after the pioneering part was complete.”

“Were they really saying that?” Vanessa asked. She was sitting on the other side of Tim, peering around him to look at Jeff. It wasn’t the first time she and Tim had wound up next to each other that afternoon.

“Oh yes. All of us in those times had a lot of big expectations about how the world was going to turn out. You know, offhand I can’t think of one prediction that ever came true—apart from the datasphere sliding the whole videophone idea in at us from the side.”

“You can still make it into orbit, though,” Philip said. “Sir Mitch is going to be offering rides next year.”

“The Mojave team will beat him,” Simon said. “They’ve got access to Boeing’s scramjet technology. That’ll bring the price of spaceflight down to the same as it costs to fly across the Atlantic.”

Jeff laughed. “Now, that’s the definition I’ve been looking for ever since I came out of the suspension womb. I look young, almost as young as you lot; but the real difference between us is cynicism. You don’t have any, while I’ve got a ton of it.”

“I’m cynical,” Philip protested. “I don’t believe a word politicians say.”

“That’s not cynicism,” Sophie said. “That’s just common sense.”

Jeff smiled to himself as he tucked into the barbeque. The youngsters chattered avidly around him, losing just about every inhibition when it came to topics and comments. He was pleased about that. Teenage reticence in front of adults was a near absolute. But he’d obviously found a form of acceptance among them. Not, he admitted to himself, that he’d want to hang with them the whole time; their interests and conversation were too shallow for that.

When he thought about it, he wasn’t totally sure what kind of group he did want to be with on a permanent social basis. Late twenties, probably, or early thirties. Young enough not to be boring, old enough to have some wisdom.

Now that Sue had left, and Tim was on the verge of departing to university, he supposed he ought to make an effort to rebuild a social life. His slightly crazy existence since finishing the treatment had virtually precluded that. It had been a good time, though; not just because of Annabelle. Every consumer item he could want, he’d already got. Which is what youth should be about, no cares, no responsibilities, enjoying everything you do, and the decades stretching out invitingly ahead of you.

Jeff drank some more beer and ate his burgers, happy that not only was this evening one of the best, but that he could repeat it ad infinitum in the years to come.

HE TOOK THEM TO SEE THE CAR after they’d finished their strawberries and cream. It had been delivered only the day before, replacing his old Mercedes. A Jaguar I-type sportster, straight off the new production line at Birmingham, it was low-slung, with two seats, sculpted raw metal bodywork, broad flex-profile tires, computer stabilized suspension, laser proximity sensors, eight recombiner cells delivering power direct to the axle hub motors, limited to three hundred and twenty kilometers per hour but capable of a lot more (he’d already got the fix for that). The sight of it sitting in the garage, yellow light glimmering softly off the blue metal surface, was enough to draw several gasps of admiration from the eager youngsters. Jeff loved it. Most modern cars were big and sedate, giving the impression of quiet infallible power; while this looked seriously mean.

“How did you get it?” Colin asked. “They only started making them this year. I thought there was a two-year waiting list.”

“Being famous has its advantages,” Jeff said. “Although, you will have to put up with me on your spamtxt for the next three months. I did an endorsement deal with Jaguar’s PR division.”

They groaned.

“I know,” Jeff said, grinning. “Sellout.”

“But worth it,” Simon said. “Definitely worth it. This is so much dead on.”

“Can I sit in it?” Rachel asked.

“Of course.” Jeff put his palm on the biometric pad, and the passenger door opened smoothly. She gave him a long thank-you smile as she wriggled past him.

Vanessa stuck her hand up eagerly. “Me too.”

“Do we get to ride in it?” Philip asked.

“’Fraid not, we’ve all had too much to drink. And I haven’t got a hack for the breath sensor yet.”

“Can I at least sit in the driver’s seat?” Colin asked querulously.

“I guess so.” It was the first thing Tim had asked when they went out for a test drive yesterday morning. He’d even let Tim drive the Jag for a couple of miles along the country lanes, where there was no chance of the boy putting his foot down.

Despite the lack of an open road, the Jag had been a dream to drive. Tires clung to the crumbling, potholed tarmac as if they were rolling along a newly laid motorway. Sitting behind the wheel on a sunny morning, U2 cranked up to level twenty on the sound system, gliding through the countryside in a car that would make most other men weep, was another of those defining best moments. Jeff’s life seemed to be clocking up a lot of them right now.

When he was first young he’d hated the sight of middle-aged men in coupes. They were all posers, with no right to own cars like those. And they all wore the same kind of cap, white canvas with a peak, as if it was some kind of Masonic uniform requirement. Didn’t they realize how sad they looked? He’d always sworn he would never repeat their mistake.

Now here he was, pulling off the whole sports car scene with considerable class.

Once he’d dropped Tim off he zoomed over to Stamford to meet up with the birthday girl in their suite at the George. He couldn’t resist driving her home afterward. Sitting behind the wheel on a warm summer’s night, delectable teenage sex kitten at his side with Bruce Springsteen at level twenty—his quality of life had taken a remarkable quantum leap inside a few short hours.

AFTER THE YOUNGSTERS HAD DEVOTED a suitable amount of time to worshipping the Jag, Jeff went back into the study while they settled back around the patio. The call came in a couple of minutes early, just like he knew it would.

“You having a good time?” Annabelle asked. She was in her bedroom at home, a drab box of a room, with ancient burgundy-red curtains already drawn against the night. The single bed she was perched on took up a third of the floor space. The wall behind was covered in posters of Stephanie and Sir Mitch.

“I just want you to be here,” he said. “I miss you.”

“I miss you, too.”

“How about you, are you having a good time?”

“Oh yeah.” Her face went all petulant. “All my friends are round at your place with Tim. And you’re there, too. School’s finished, I’ve nowhere else to go. I hate it here, Jeff, I really hate it.”

“I’m sorry. I was there for you this morning, wasn’t I?”

“I know. I just want to be with you, Jeff.” Her hand reached out to press against the screen. “Can’t we be together?”

“We can. We will.”

“I’m being selfish. Sorry. How’s the party?”

“Hmm.” Jeff glanced out the window at the floodlit patio. “They’re getting ready to watch the football match. It’s going to be a long evening, I’d guess.”

“Great.”

“This is getting ridiculous, isn’t it. I want you here, with me, tonight.”

“I want to be there,” she said mournfully.

“I’m going to go and tell him.”

“No, Jeff.”

“For Christ’s sake, the boy’s got to learn there’s thorns among the roses sometime.”

“Please, Jeff, you’re drunk, and randy, and tonight is not the night to tell him.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Jeff, promise me you won’t.”

“All right, all right.” He waved his arms in a conciliatory motion. “I’ll be good. But you’ve got to promise me we’ll talk about this soon. Creeping around meeting in hotel rooms is fine and fun for a few days, but I want more of you than that.”

“Really? Do you mean that?”

“Of course I mean that.”

“I’ll wait till tomorrow,” she murmured.

“That’s the whole point. I don’t want to wait.”

WHEN JEFF GOT BACK OUT onto the patio he just managed to hold off glaring at Tim. If he had, it would have been noticed. His son had avoided any drink other than water and lemonade all evening; he was the only sober one left. Even so, Jeff must have given away some kind of clue.

As soon as he plunked himself down in the slatted oak chair, Tim leaned over and used a quiet voice to ask: “Everything okay, Dad?”

“Sure.” Jeff slapped his son’s knee. “Sure. I’m fine.”

“Here we go,” Colin yelled.

They’d all pulled their chairs into a semicircle, facing a portable five-meter screen, which Tim and Jeff had wheeled out of the pool building earlier. It was showing the Barcelona versus Chelsea European premier league match, live from Milan.

Rachel slumped back into her chair next to Jeff. “This is going to be boring,” she muttered, folding her arms over her chest.

The Five Star Sports access provider logo flashed up over the Milan stadium. Every seat was filled with chanting supporters. Players were running onto the pitch, its grass weirdly bright under the big lighting rigs. A line of ten small grids appeared along the bottom of the screen, providing alternative camera angles. Two of them were carried by the captains, mounted on the side of their helmets. The logo faded out to be replaced by Rob Lacey’s campaign symbol, a white dove flying out of the circle of gold European stars. A streamer scrolled down one side of the screen, declaring that the match’s wideband pan-European access costs were being paid for by the Rob Lacey for President Committee. The ad started in a swirl of music. The main picture and every grid showed shots of Rob Lacey being involved with people, talking to groups of children in several European countries, inspecting a factory, looking out across the sea from the bridge of a EuroNavy destroyer, in shirtsleeves at a head of state meeting where he argued his point. “Rob Lacey,” the announcer said in a magnificently basso voice. “The man who cares about you. Rob Lacey did not come up through the Brussels system, he can see it needs reforming and simplifying. If elected he will do that. Bureaucracy must be cut back, freeing people to reach their full potential. Only Rob Lacey truly values individuals and—”

Jeff let out a bored yawn. The images that had been flipping up to illustrate how magnificent the candidate was suddenly showed Rob Lacey and Jeff walking around the manor’s garden. The prime minister was listening with a seriously thoughtful expression on his face as Jeff waved his arms around, chattering enthusiastically.

The youngsters round the patio jeered and booed loudly. Jeff stood up with a lazy grin on his face, and gave them a sweeping bow. “Thank you, thank you.”

Up on the screen, Rob Lacey was applauding a modern dance troupe from a German inner-city social regeneration project, half of whom were second-generation immigrants from Eastern Europe and Turkey. Jeff sat down as the ad finished with an appeal for inclusive voting, and any donations possible for the election campaign, ten percent of which would be given to the charities so ably supported by Mr. and Mrs. Lacey. He frowned, thinking about the time Lacey had visited the manor. Hadn’t he been talking merely about pruning the sycamores when they were walking around the gardens together?

“At bloody last,” Simon exclaimed. Both soccer teams were moving into their positions, with Chelsea taking the kickoff. The ball went zooming in a high trajectory across the pitch; players hurtled toward it. There was a brief clash of bodies and legs, and the ball was spat outward, toward the Chelsea goalmouth.

“I’m amazed they can even see the damn ball in those helmets,” Jeff mumbled grouchily. “What happened to the kit they used to wear?”

“You mean, when you were young?” Tim teased.

“Yeah. I mean, a pair of shorts and a team sweater was all they ever used to need. Now look at them.” His elaborate gesture took in the heavily padded and helmeted players scurrying over the pitch. “They’re like bloody American footballers. They can’t run; they’re carrying so much foam stuffing they just bounce.”

“Got to be like that, Jeff,” Philip said. “Basic safety.”

“Yeah,” Martin laughed. “The clubs have got to protect themselves against liability lawyers.”

Jeff took another drink of beer. He knew if he said anything more he’d sound like a reactionary old grandfather. Everything used to be better in the past. It wasn’t true. The old days were enjoyable only from a long way away, and seen through hazy filters. Now was always the truly best time to live in. Now had Annabelle in it, even though she was ten miles away.

Rachel leaned over on the edge of her chair, an inscrutable expression on her dainty face as she looked at him. “Penny for your thoughts,” she said quietly.

“Nothing important.”

“Really? I thought you looked lonely.”

FOR ONCE THE MORNING AFTER he’d had an enjoyable night, Tim didn’t have a hangover. He felt incredibly virtuous, refusing every alcoholic drink he’d been offered.

If only Annabelle could have seen me last night.

But that wasn’t going to happen, not for a while. He was still more than a little disappointed that she hadn’t even acknowledged the flowers he’d sent her on her birthday. Strange thing was, both Vanessa and Sophie had been reticent to discuss her with him last night, although Vanessa had said she’d welcome him giving her a call after she got back home to Nottingham tomorrow. He could press her again then, he decided. No way was he giving up on the most wonderful thing ever to happen to him. Just being persistent would make Annabelle realize how much he genuinely loved her.

Tim pulled on the shorts and T-shirt that were laid out ready for him, and made his way downstairs. There were voices coming from the kitchen. When he walked in, it was just like a déjà vu trip back to that morning when he’d found his mother and father together: two people in bathrobes cuddling up together, carefree smiles as they fed each other toast. He really wished it was his mother again, or even any of the other girls his father had brought home after cruising the clubs. Instead, he just had to square up to the reality of it being Rachel who was perched on the chair next to his father, cooing and smooching with him.

His legs just refused to move, leaving him stranded in the doorway, gawking at the pair of them. Rachel! Rachel was his own age, and a friend. Not to mention being Simon’s girlfriend! And she’d spent the night upstairs in his father’s double bed. The two of them naked and…Tim jammed a halt to that line of thought before any images started to spring up.

“Hi, Tim.” Rachel gave him a sunny smile. “Surprise.”

“Uh. Hi.”

“Morning, Tim,” Jeff said. He seemed moderately abashed. Not embarrassed, or contrite, not as if he’d done anything wrong. Just ever so slightly disconcerted.

“Dad,” Tim mumbled. He put his head down and went for the cornflakes. There was no way he could look at the two of them together, not without seeing those images in his mind. His discomfort melted away into resentment for what they’d done, for putting him in this horrible place. Resentment at his father for hitting on a friend. And as for Rachel, what the hell did she think she was doing?

I mean, why?

“Something wrong?” Rachel asked.

“Not with me,” Tim growled back at her.

“You’re not upset, are you?”

It was the implication he hated her for. That little trace of elite amusement in her voice that asked: What do you think you’re doing, passing judgment?

“Is there something I should be upset about?” he asked.

“No. That’s the whole point.”

Tim stopped the pretense of searching for breakfast. “Well then.” He turned his back on both of them and started to walk out.

“Tim, don’t,” Jeff said. There was some genuine worry in his voice, the need to appease. “I thought we talked about this.”

Tim faced them, exasperation amplifying his surliness. “No, not this, Dad. We did not talk this through at all.”

“There was no unspoken agreement, Tim, nothing to say I can’t…” He broke off, giving Rachel a glance. She pouted back at him.

“And that’s the trouble, Dad. You don’t think there’s anything wrong with this. For God’s sake.”

“Well, why don’t you tell me where the trouble lies, exactly?” Jeff said, his voice hardening. “I’d like to know what you think I should and shouldn’t be doing.”

“As if you don’t know.”

“Excuse me,” Rachel said, her voice icy. “I am here and present. And if you speak round me again, Tim, I shall give you a slap that’ll knock your teeth out.”

Tim’s fury withered so quickly he hunched his shoulders in reflex. “Sorry,” he grumped.

“I went to bed with Jeff because I wanted to. That’s it. The end. Live with it.”

He nodded contritely, and retreated from the kitchen.

Jeff waited in silence until he heard Tim’s feet pounding on the stairs. He let out a low, regretful whistle. “I think we could have done that better.”

“It was best this way,” Rachel said. “Trust me. Hard and fast, this way he gets over it quicker.”

“Is that the way to do it?” Jeff muttered.

“God, you’re as bad as him. If you’re that sensitive, then last night shouldn’t have happened.”

“I should put you over my knee,” he said.

Rachel crunched down on a slice of toast, chewing it with exaggerated movements. Her eyes glittered with suppressed amusement, fixing on him like some kind of missile radar lock. “Promises, promises,” she purred.

THEY WENT BACK UPSTAIRS to bed. For Jeff, it was almost like a so there to Tim. The boy’s reaction had left him mildly depressed. If Tim felt like that about him taking one of his friends to bed, there was no way he was ready for the truth about Annabelle.

He was actually quite relieved when Rachel left around midmorning. Tim had disappeared, and the Europol team was watching a sports stream in the downstairs lounge they’d commandeered. Jeff went into the study and locked the door with a voice code. His desktop synthesizer was housed in a specially designed drawer in the desk’s left side. Its lock was voice coded as well, clicking open smoothly as Jeff spoke to it. To look at it, the unit wasn’t much, a cube of gray-white plastic fairly similar in appearance to the last century’s laser-jet printers.

When the first models had started to come on the market ten years ago, the editorial commentators of the DataMail news stream, which considered itself a prominent occupant of the moral high ground to the right of center, had denounced them as tools of the drug barons, which would bring degenerate misery into millions of families. The early models were designed around a couple of programmable molecular sieves that could combine a few base chemicals into an array of drugs. Originally intended to help reduce the stock costs for high-street pharmacies and hospitals, their potential was eagerly exploited by the illegal narcotics trade. Governments responded with their usual mistrust of their citizenship, legislating heavily, and restricting ownership to legitimate licensed medical concerns. Consequentially a huge and prolific black market for pirated machines flourished in tandem with the lawful industry, gradually forcing back the statutory regulations. Along with that relaxation a multitude of new chemical templates for recreational drugs were released into the datasphere, going under the generic of synth8.

The complexity and sophistication of the desktop machines advanced swiftly, expanding the range of drugs they could produce. Within ten years, the advanced models incorporated a multitude of programmable sieves, capable of churning out all but the most advanced drugs. The DataMail had been right: It was the age of the ultimate designer drug, although their predicted crash of civilization showed no sign of occurring. Any student or qualified neurochemist could generate a synth8 template. There were even self-design programs floating around within the datasphere, where you loaded in your required narcotic effect, and they’d give you a template that should do the trick. Whether you used them depended how keenly you followed the conspiracy tracker sites.

For the biogenetic corporations, desktop synthesizers represented a huge loss of revenue, although supplying vials of high-purity base chemicals certainly went some way toward compensating. What prevented them from suffering the same fate as the publishing and music industries was the sheer range of the new genoprotein and biochemical products, which, thanks to their enormous complexity, still had to be factory produced.

Seventeen green LEDs glowed on the top of Jeff’s unit, showing him the base chemical vials were all still over thirty percent full.

“Click, give me the same Viagra dose I used last time.”

“Synthesizing now,” the computer told him.

He’d bought the desktop synthesizer a few years back to supply himself with some of the simpler drugs his anti-aging regimen required. The only time he’d used the machine after he’d returned from his rejuvenation treatment was to churn out some neurofen capsules to take care of Tim’s hangovers. But after his second encounter with Annabelle at the George he realized that his own stamina couldn’t quite match her own natural youthful endurance. Sue had kept him aroused all night with her diabolical knowledge. Those were skills in which he was now methodically instructing a hugely willing Annabelle. But until he’d finished corrupting her, he simply needed a little something extra to keep that initial blissful physical momentum of their sessions going.

The first time he’d come to the study and instructed a findbot to get him a Viagra template he’d been astonished by the number of results it had fished out of the datasphere. He should have known, of course; it was now a generic name along with Aspirin and Kleenex. Pharmacists had been refining the principle for decades, gradually eliminating side effects such as headaches, loss of balance, constipation, and even tinnitus, until the modern versions could sustain an erection for a very long time with almost no problem. Even with his programming skills it took ten minutes to filter the possible templates down to less than a dozen. After that, he simply took the first one off the list and fed it into the synthesizer. It hadn’t disappointed.

The desktop synthesizer pinged discreetly. Three blank turquoise capsules dropped into the little dispenser tray. Jeff put them in his pocket, and locked the unit up again. It was an hour until he was due to meet Annabelle for lunch. After coping with Rachel for most of the morning as well as last night, he’d probably have to take two of the capsules with his dessert.