That must have been Annie, he reflected, but tried not to remember that. To clear his head, Geraint thought he’d go make some money. He’d been neglecting that for too long.
Well, old friend, I’m going to be unmovable in front of the cricket in a few hours, and until then I’m going to be sticking my snout into the trough of speculative financing. Got to check out the West Coast markets. They’ll be humming by now. So you’ll have to excuse me for tonight.
“There’re some good shows in town. Check the text service on the Beth’s C-net, that’ll tell you everything you want to know. If you’re homesick, OzNet on the trid has reruns of ancient American sitcoms and soaps. Or there might be something on the satellite channels. Avoid anything Italian, though; it’s either the worst game shows in the world or atrociously dubbed porn. Tomorrow, we can do some touristy things. Y’know: Tower of London, the Palaces, all that glop. Sound good to you?”
Geraini didn’t get the reply he expected. Instead, he heard the query that every British man dreads in the deepest recesses of his soul whenever it comes from an American.
“Um, Geraint, could you explain to me the rules of cricket?"
18
Rani woke to find that a gang of trolls with sledgehammers was breaking up a road inside her skull. She groaned, looked at the digital, which read eleven-fifteen, and turned over. She wanted to get back to sleep, but she was desperately thirsty. It felt like someone had washed out her mouth with paint-stripper.
She managed to get downstairs without killing herself and staggered around looking for the orange juice. I am never, ever, going to drink that Polish stuff again, she thought. Why couldn’t I have been satisfied with just food and sweets? When was…? I think I started drinking about ten. I sure as hell can’t remember much after ten-thirty.
Taking the bottle from the ancient electric fridge, she dropped the plastic beaker she was going to fill, and thought, Rakk this! I’ll just drink from the bottle.
She drained half of it then and there in the kitchen, then slouched back toward the living room. That was when she saw the scrap of paper lying on the floor, in front of the door with its many locks and chains. The old letterbox had long been nailed shut, so someone must have actually forced the sheet through the infinitesimally small gap between door and floor. That was unusual.
What the frag IS this? she thought, casting a bleary eye over it. It was a leaflet printed in heavy black and red ink on garish yellow paper, an advertisement for an appearance by the Blazing Paranormal Ambulance at The Subway. In the area to be sure, and they did play great electroslam. but the date on the flyer was August fourteenth.
“What the hell is this?" she snapped to no one in particular, and was about to throw the plugger away when the crude scrawl running around the border caught her eye:
May have something to tell you – Exit to Finchley Rd, remember? – Midnight – Can't risk the daytime – You’ll be safe
You bet I’ll be safe, Smeng, Hell, I’ll even get myself a cab, if I can find one willing to do business around here at that hour.
Rani dragged herself back up the stairs and collapsed into bed with a splitting headache. She dozed on and off for an hour or two, then dragged herself out of the sweaty sheets and made for the bathroom. Splashing handfuls of cold water over her face while shivering in her underwear, Rani found no comfort in the fact that she looked only slightly less awful than she felt. And since that was like death warmed over, the mirror wasn’t doing her much of a favor. The window had ice flowers on it, but she wasn’t sure if she was shaking because of the cold or the hangover.
Get out on the streets and get some fresh air, girl, she chided herself. Get yourself a quart of juice, stuff down as many high-sugar sweets as you can without puking, and get this body into working order. Tonight you're going to get one move closer.
“So, what have you been up to these past few days?”
They were savoring the first sips of the chilled champagne, mist forming on the side of the glasses, the long flutes raised to waiting lips. They had sighed as one at the first taste of lemony bubbles exploding in the mouth.
"Well," Francesca replied, licking her deliciously glossed lips, “frankly, I spent a good day stripping my Fuchi-6 and checking it out. I got paranoid about whether someone had been horsing around with it. Ridiculous, of course. No one’s going to get past the security, but I wasn’t entirely rational at the time. I got the new medic program installed and an armor program like you wouldn’t believe. Withstand a tactical nuke, this one. I’ll have to wait on the poison, though.”
“In the interim, I checked some personnel agencies for my own benefit. Downloaded a few megs of various bits and pieces. Left the dumbframe to wander around it all, run some analyses. It’s always useful to see who’s been having a surge of interest in people who, er, work in related fields.” That was enough about her. “What have you boys been up to?”
Geraint replied with a slight shake of the head. “Not a lot. We chewed the fat over a glass or two, look Serrin to the National Museum, caught Hamlet at the Imperial last night, made a little money. There’s a new Paraguayan root extract all the rage with the slammers here and I invested in some, sold some distribution rights, and covered myself with HKB’s commodity insurance. Allowing for the premium, should be up forty, fifty thou. Today’s been quiet.”
“He showed me the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace, then took me around the House of Nobles,” Serrin piped in. “I actually had a good time.” Geraint made a polite gesture of self-deprecation as Serrin enthused, then he leaned forward to refill Francesca’s glass.
The evening drifted perfectly. Before long the livened waiters began to emerge from the kitchen with a series of delights, though the three of them barely noticed, so caught up were they in each other’s company.
Geraint must have paid a fortune for this, Serrin thought as he cut himself another slice of the perfect, slightly pink beef and heaped another spoonful of buttered broccoli onto his china plate. Sure, he had the money to pay for it, but Serrin knew plenty of people who wouldn’t treat friends this good.
“Comes from farmlands near home, this beef," Geraint was saying. I can guarantee there’s absolutely nothing in it you wouldn’t want to have in your tissues this time tomorrow. The land went through detox a decade ago. The cow this came from actually ate healthy grass under blue skies. Not factory stuff. A bloody miracle. Enjoy yourselves.”
They hardly needed the invitation. By the time the servants had brought the pavlova and zabaglione and the astonishing coffee tray filled with fresh cream truffles and sculpted mints, they were experiencing a sense of wellbeing none of them had felt for sometime. When the last of Fortnum’s people had gone, closing the door carefully and quietly, they barely even noticed.
Geraint drained the last of the Petrus, fabulously rich and luscious, its aftertaste developing in his mouth and at the back of his throat.
“This wine is empirical proof of the existence of God. And if God exists this proves he must be a benevolent old bastard. I’m always tempted to quote poetry when I drink Petrus." He laughed at himself as he stirred thick cream into his coffee cup. “Only joking. I very, very rarely do that.”
“Only to women.” Francesca smiled seductively at him, almost a challenge across the table as she leaned forward on her elbows. The alcohol had flushed her face slightly, and she tended to be indiscreet at such times.
I wish you hadn’t said that, Geraint thought sadly. Serrin’s beginning to wonder now. He thinks something may be going on. He didn’t ask me about it, and somehow I didn’t feel like saying anything to him.