“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.