Misspent Youth (commonwealth saga)

by Peter F. Hamilton

  “Oh, you’ve got him, have you? Where the hell were you when he was chucking up in the back of my car, man? Huh?”

  “I’m sorry, I’ll see…”

  “He threw up in my fucking car. Threw up! That is the most disrespect you can have for me, man. There isn’t another car like this left in the country.”

  Jeff hardened his voice. “I said I’m sorry.”

  “I’ve got a fucking passenger booked for tomorrow. What am I going to tell him? Just slide around till you find a clean piece of fucking seat? Is that what I say? That’s leather upholstery, man. Real antique leather.”

  “Get it cleaned. Bill me. All right?”

  “Get it cleaned?” The chauffeur waved his arms around. “Where the fuck am I going to get it cleaned in time for my next passenger? It’s three o’clock in the fucking morning.”

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Shut up, Tim. I don’t know where you get it cleaned, and I don’t care. Just calm down and get the hell out of here. I told you, I will pay.”

  Lieutenant Krober was coming down the portico steps behind Jeff. Tim’s bodyguard squad were climbing out of their BMW.

  “Fuck you, man.” The chauffeur looked around at the approaching men. He pointed a rigid forefinger at Jeff, shaking it. “I got friends, man. Good friends. You fucked with the wrong person tonight, you understand? Friends.”

  “You’re on an express elevator to hell. Going down. You should get off before it reaches the bottom.”

  The chauffeur gawked at him.

  Jeff held back on a sigh at the reaction. Doesn’t anyone watch the classics anymore? He beckoned a couple of the Europol team. “Get him inside, will you, please?” They bent over Tim and hauled him to his feet. The boy groaned, but didn’t throw up again.

  Jeff ducked his head down and looked into the back of the limousine. The smell of vomit was appalling. Annabelle was sitting hunched up on a long sofa bench that ran along one side of the cavernous interior. He was pretty sure she’d been crying. “Come on,” he said softly, and held a hand out to her. “Let’s get you home, Cinders.”

  WHILE TIM WAS CARRIED INTO THE MANOR, Annabelle and Jeff walked over to the garage at the side of the building. In the cool, quiet night air, her footsteps sounded incredibly loud on the gravel. That was all she focused on, the ridiculous crunching sound under her heels.

  The ball was supposed to be a fabulous extravaganza, one they would all remember for years. This was the marker for the future, her future, the standard she was going to live to. Then Tim had done what Tim always did.

  And to top it all, now she had to go home. Back to the small dark house in its worn-down estate. Back to the cheap shabby interior. Back to her father and his baffled pity. It was as if home only existed to emphasize how her hopes had been broken again.

  “I don’t want to go home,” she said mournfully. “There’s nothing there.”

  Jeff put his arm around her shoulder and gave her a quick squeeze before breaking contact. It was the most platonic and endearing gesture he’d ever shown her. “Come on, it’s not that bad.”

  You have no idea, she thought.

  SHE WAS SILENT for most of the drive back to Uppingham. They drove together in the Merc, with a thoroughly pissed-off bodyguard squad following behind.

  “He always does it,” she said as they slid along the road through the Chater valley. She had to say something, to explain how awful the evening had been for her. She was sure nobody understood. “Always.”

  “I’m sorry. Really. I wanted you both to have a lovely night.”

  She gave him a long look. His generation’s Sir Mitch. “Did you?”

  “Yes, believe it or not. I did. I was as envious as hell of Tim when the two of you set off tonight. You were the perfect couple. You deserved better than the way it turned out.”

  Annabelle let her head fall back into the leather seat cover, and closed her eyes. The Merc’s suspension provided an incredibly smooth ride, almost as if they weren’t moving at all. It gave her an odd feeling of isolation. “I was stupid, you know, letting me and Tim ever happen.”

  “You were good for him. In fact you’re probably the best thing that’s ever happened to him.”

  “I shouldn’t have done it. I was overreacting to everything going on in my life, and it was wrong. I want things that were never going to happen with Tim, I see that now.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t have to be.”

  He didn’t respond.

  Annabelle smiled into the darkness. Now all that was left was to wait. Her heart was racing away inside her chest. That shouldn’t be happening to someone who was supposed to be calm and in charge, but there was so much pressure concentrated on this moment. Like Stephanie going for game point.

  The Merc drew up outside Annabelle’s house. At this time of the morning, even the local bad boys had slunk away home. Jeff turned the power off.

  “Here we are,” he said. “Home sweet home.”

  “I just live here, it’s not my home.” Her eyes were still closed.

  Jeff looked at her. Weak streetlight shimmered through the Merc’s windows, showing him her profile in a dry sodium-orange drizzle. He took his time, unrepentant, enjoying the way the gown’s bodice clung to her, showing off the shape and size of her breasts. Several skirt panels had slipped aside, revealing long athletic legs.

  Seventy-eight years of a good life lived well should have produced an unmatched sophistication and refinement. There ought to have been clever words and wicked lies he could use, rivaling history’s great seducers. All Jeff said was: “I want to fuck you.”

  Annabelle opened her eyes, looking around at the familiar street, the BMW parked behind. “Don’t let them see. Not this.”

  He found the dial that controlled the opacity of the Merc’s windows, and turned it up full. The streetlights faded away to tiny dim stars. There was just enough light left for him to see her reach around and undo the gown’s neck clasp. She pulled the bodice down. His hand clamped down hard on one of her breasts, squeezing to discover the weight, the firmness.

  “Let me just…” he said, and used his free hand to turn her chair release lever. The back hinged down until it was almost horizontal.

  There was no real room to move. Annabelle couldn’t cry out for fear of who might hear and be drawn to the car. Her skirt panels were clawed aside. His weight pressed her down, shoving her spine into the cushioning of a seat that was now bent awkwardly, making it uncomfortable to the verge of painful. Hands switched between breasts and thighs, fiercer than Derek had ever been. Her feet banged into the dashboard. Fingers curled around her panties and tugged until the cotton ripped.

  There was nothing she could do but lie there while he thrust into her again and again. It was demeaning and disgraceful. Bodies locked together in cramped darkness, his a deplorable sixty years older than hers. Gown fabric constricting, scrunched too tight against her limbs. Car seat preventing her from moving, escaping. Illicit and depraved. Leather squeaking and sticking, rubbing abrasively against sweating flesh. His strength. The heat. Her boyfriend’s father’s cock rooting round inside her. Breath panting over her face. All of it at once as her orgasm built, taking over.

  In the end she did cry out. It didn’t matter who heard, not now. It was a victory cry, pure animal.

  He lay on top of her, limp and shaking, while she tried to get her breathing back to normal. Then she heard a slight chuckle, and he gingerly raised himself up onto his elbows. His face hung centimeters above hers.

  “You okay?” he asked, concern in the voice.

  “Yes.” She was smiling unseen in the darkness. Sex, with Jeff, in a car, in front of her own house, was far more exciting than it had ever been creeping off to see Derek. I knew it would be.

  “Bloody hell,” he grunted. “Doing it in a car at my age.”

  Annabelle wriggled an arm down between them. Her hand curled round his cock, and moved the way she knew men couldn’t r
esist. “More,” she whispered. The urgency was like confessing every sin she’d ever committed.

  31. AFTERMATH

  IT WAS THE HANGOVER that would not go away. There was no pain, no thudding headache, no wretched nausea. At least…those aspects had all faded by lunchtime with the help of a few neurofen and a lot of cold water and hot coffee forced down him by a hugely unsympathetic Mrs. Mayberry. No, Tim’s burden was a whole lot worse, and due to be carried for a long time.

  There wasn’t a lot he remembered about last night. The summer ball had started splendidly in a huge marquee with a galaxy of shining silverware laid out on the long tables. A six-piece band playing cheerful pre10 music was sitting beside a raised wooden dance floor. Bar staff handed out large flagons of wine to each couple. An official photographer had taken everyone’s picture when they arrived. And the stretch limo had attracted a lot of attention and envy.

  Annabelle had stayed close beside him the whole time, as radiant and happy as he’d ever seen her. They greeted their friends and classmates; Vanessa was there, and Lorraine, and Philip, and Martin, and Colin, and Natalie, and Zai, and Sophie (who was there with Martin, which drew more than one comment behind their backs). The whole bunch of them were overeager now that finals were a fading memory. They posed in large groups for the photographer, smiling wide, and with their arms draped around one another. The ball’s atmosphere was flush with excitement, although a tingle of melancholia mingled in. This was, after all, the last time they’d all be gathered together. End of an era.

  There were drinks and canapés first. Then the formal five-course meal, with wine or beer. Speeches—thankfully short. Then the dancing started, with the bar still serving away enthusiastically.

  After that, they’d booked a couple of tables in Low Moonlight in the middle of Oakham, the best club the town could offer. They had more drinks, grazing on pizza. A whole lot of mournful talk about what they were all going to do with their lives. Which of them was going to the Million Citizen Voice protest.

  Tim hadn’t realized he’d drunk so much. At most a couple of glasses during the meal, surely? Maybe one or two between dances. Social drinking only in Low Moonlight.

  Obviously not. He couldn’t actually recall much about the last half of the ball. And Low Moonlight was a blank apart from a certainty that he’d been there with the crew. Of the drive back home, all he remembered was of someone shouting over the intercom.

  Then he woke up, and the nightmare began.

  “How could you do such a thing?” Mrs. Mayberry asked while he was groaning and clamping his hands to his dangerously hot forehead. “Here.” She slammed a tumbler of water on the kitchen table, several white pills rolling around beside it. The noise was like quarry blasting. Tim thought he might keel over. His hands were shaking badly, his skin icy.

  “You don’t deserve a nice girl like that, not if that’s how you treat her.”

  “Please,” Tim croaked. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t, ha! There isn’t a bouquet of flowers big enough in the world to make up for what you did. That poor, poor girl.”

  Tim got the first pill into his mouth and managed a single sip of water. His stomach squirmed in rebellion. “Oh God, what did I do?”

  “That ball should have been the happiest night of her life. The pair of you should have danced till dawn. Proper dancing, not that pogo jiving your generation calls dancing. And what do you do? You drink so much your police squad have to carry you to bed, that’s what.” Cupboards slammed loudly, and crockery rattled as the housekeeper started to make coffee. He was already dreading the roar of the espresso machine.

  “Where’s Annabelle?”

  “As far away from you as possible.”

  “Where? Please.”

  Mrs. Mayberry shot him a slightly softer look. “Your father took her home. Poor lamb.”

  “I have to call her.” He tried to stand up, but the nausea made him clench his stomach muscles. The shakes started up again.

  Mrs. Mayberry pointed a wooden spoon at him. “You get those pills down, young man. And if you upchuck over my floor tiles, it isn’t going to be me who cleans them. You understand?”

  “Yes,” Tim agreed piteously. He reached for the second pill.

  Jeff came into the kitchen and sat down opposite him. “Morning.”

  Tim wondered why he’d actually bothered getting out of bed, in fact why he’d bothered ever waking up. “Dad, I’m sorry.”

  “I know, son. I’ve had a few nights like that myself.”

  “You have?”

  Mrs. Mayberry let out a snort of contempt.

  Jeff looked at her. “We’d like some time together, thanks.”

  There was a final strident clatter on the workbench surface, and she walked out.

  “I didn’t mean to,” Tim said. “It was just…everything was going well. I felt so good. Annabelle was happy.”

  “Tim, I took her home last night. She wasn’t happy. You were throwing up in the limo. It was not nice.”

  “Oh God.” He thought he was going to start crying. “I’ve got to talk to her.”

  “No. Leave it for a while. Believe me, she doesn’t want to talk to you right now.”

  “But I love her, Dad, I really love her. Dead on!” He looked into his father’s face, finding a pain that mirrored his own. “I’m going to call.”

  “Tim, don’t. That’ll only make it worse right now.”

  “But I can’t leave it!”

  “I know. Look, send an avtxt first, make it very plain that you know you’re in the wrong. Give her some time, then try and talk, see if she’ll forgive you. Okay?”

  Tim nodded, and bowed his head. “Yeah. I got it.”

  So he did what his father suggested—actually, it made a lot of sense—and ordered a bunch of flowers, and sent an avtxt. Then he called Rachel, who was pretty short with him but did say she hadn’t heard from Annabelle, and Annabelle was too good for him anyway. “I know,” Tim moaned at the blank screen after she switched off.

  “God, you so much blew it last night,” Colin said. “I can’t believe how much you knocked back. What were you thinking of?”

  “Wasn’t everybody else drinking?” Tim asked miserably.

  “Yeah, but you always go too far, Tim.”

  “Have you heard from Annabelle?”

  “Me? Shit, no.”

  “Has anybody?”

  “I don’t know. Doubt it.”

  “If you do hear anything…”

  “I’ll call you, mate, no sweat.”

  There was no reply to his avtxt. He sent another, a longer apology. Then a third. The fourth was a straight txt begging letter. By five o’clock in the afternoon he couldn’t stand it anymore, and tried a direct call. The Goddard house’s domestic computer informed him he wasn’t on the approved caller list and ended the connection.

  “Want to come jogging with me?” Jeff asked sympathetically when he found Tim moping about in the living room. “It’s cooling down a bit outside now.”

  “No. I’m going to take my e-trike over to Uppingham.”

  “Oh no,” Jeff said. “No you don’t. There are laws against stalking.”

  “Dad! I’m not stalking. I want to see her. I’ve got to explain.”

  “I’ll make a deal with you. If she hasn’t replied to a call by this time tomorrow, I’ll drive you over there myself. Okay?”

  “Suppose so.”

  ANNABELLE ALLOWED HIS CALL though the next morning. The screen showed him an image that made him ache. She was wearing a simple red T-shirt with a slightly frayed collar; her hair was pinned back neatly. Only her intimidatingly blank expression gave any hint of how bad things were.

  “I’m sorry,” he blurted. “I’m so much sorry. Really.”

  “I know you are, Tim, but that doesn’t change things for either of us, does it?”

  “Um, no. But it won’t happen again.”

  “Tim, there isn’t going to be an ‘again’ for it to happen in.
”

  “What?” He thought his phone was glitching. She couldn’t have said that.

  “Tim, we’re over. That’s it.”

  “No! Look, let me come over, we can talk about this. I’m not going to drink again, all right? I fucked up once, I know that. I won’t ever again. I promise, Annabelle, I swear. It’ll be different now. God, I hated myself when I woke up. Please. Let’s just get together. We can sort this out.”

  “I don’t want you to come over, Tim. I don’t want to talk. It’s over. We’re over. That’s it. That’s all there is to it.”

  “No.” His fist banged down on the table. “It was special, Annabelle, I love you.”

  “I don’t love you, Tim.”

  “You did, you really did. I know you did.”

  “Don’t get sex and love mixed up, Tim; they’re very different.”

  “Not with us.”

  “Yes, with us. Tim, it was good fun, but that was all. Move on. I have.”

  “We can move on together. I promise, Annabelle, it’ll be so good.”

  “What? You’re going to tell me we can go to university together? That you’ll give up Oxford and Cambridge and come to some second-rate campus to be with me? Face it, Tim, at best we were only going to have a long summer romance.”

  “It can be more,” he pleaded.

  “Tim, I want you to end this call.”

  “No.”

  “Tim, you and I are over. Don’t make me say bad things. Please. Switch the phone off.”

  “Come and talk.”

  “You are hurting me by leaving the phone on. Do you want to hurt me?”

  “No. Annabelle!”

  “Then switch the phone off.”

  “Please.”

  “Off, Tim.”

  Her face hadn’t altered, there was no trace of emotion anywhere to be seen. With a last gasp of dismay he pressed the button that ended the call, then collapsed sobbing.

  32. SECOND TIME AROUND

  WHEN THE BRUSSELS TREASURY began to pour its torrent of taxeuros into subsidizing the European train network, England was lucky that most of its old decommissioned lines could be revived without too much effort. Nearly all the old bridges had been knocked down, development projects had spilled across the abandoned stations and marshaling yards, and trees had grown up to clot the embankments out in the countryside. But the cost of resurrecting the old lines was insignificant in comparison to that of establishing a whole new network. Local trains were able to reestablish their prominence quickly in comparison to other countries.