into performing by Lucy Duke, who by the end of that conversation was ready to either slap him or burst into tears.
On Tuesday it was the turn of South America and several Pacific Rim nations. Wednesday was China and Africa. Jeff had been videoed alone chatting to the interviewer; he and Sue chatting to the interviewer; if the crew was very lucky they got Tim as well. He’d been videoed “working” in his study; there had been everyday domestic scenes in the kitchen, walking around the garden (the Langleys lent them Katie, their ridiculously soppy Great Dane, for a more cozy family image), kicking a ball about with Tim, playing tennis with Sue—his coordination was dreadful. Questions had ranged from the standard “How do you feel” to “What do you think of the situation in Nepal,” and “Has pizza topping improved over the last seventy years,” to “Do you approve of the death penalty.”
Thursday was back to the European media. By happy coincidence, Rob Lacey paid him a visit on Thursday afternoon, to see how he was progressing. The prime ministerial convoy of five huge limousines clogged up Empingham’s main street, giving local kids a great opportunity to try to dodge the bodyguards to let down the tires. When the PM left, he passed a huge homemade banner along the side of the road saying: FREE ENGLAND NOW! The windows on the limousine darkened even further as it drove by the fluttering fabric.
That evening Jeff sat on the sofa in the living room and hopped through the news streams, each of which had ad banners running constantly across the foot of the screen. Right from his very first press interview thirty years ago, he’d always hated seeing himself on the telly, but tonight he forced himself. It was the interview with Berlin Newswatch, where he’d been sitting outside on one of the patio’s oak chairs.
“What did you dream about in the suspension womb?” the interviewer asked. “You did dream, didn’t you?”
“Oh yes,” the Jeff on the patio said. “Flying was the predominant dream; though it was more like accelerating through the night. It was almost a sense of uncertainty, as if I was racing along beside a cliff. I knew it was there, but couldn’t actually see it.”
“That’s most interesting. Now that you’re out, how much of your previous life can you remember?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Jeff complained to Sue, who was curled up on the room’s other sofa. “My previous life! I’ve been rejuvenated, not reincarnated. What kind of stupid question is that?”
Up on the screen, Jeff laughed politely and started giving a sincere description of his childhood memories.
“Same as all the other stupid questions we’ve had this week,” she said. “Every interviewer is desperately trying to ask something fresh. It’s their job.”
“Shame they’re so bad at it.”
“Yes, Jeff.”
“Oh… to hell with it.” He took a sip of his bottled German beer. It had been good to find he could drink a respectable amount again without suffering a hangover and rushing to pee all night long. “You know I haven’t done a single minute of real work.”
“I know. Lucy Duke scheduled that for next week.”
“That—” He glanced at the open door. “—woman. Jesus, what planet do they import people like that from?”
“Don’t know, dear.” Sue was pressing her lips together to prevent a smile.
“I could take a good guess,” he muttered sourly. “Click. Give us the English Newsweb stream, please.”
The Berlin Newswatch vanished, to be replaced by a report on a Customs and Excise raid in Cornwall where the officers had seized a huge load of cannabis, which the excited reporter estimated at a value of over eight million euros. Smugglers had brought it in, avoiding VAT and duty.
“Who uses that anymore?” Jeff puzzled. “I thought everyone dosed up on synth8 from desktop synthesizers.”
“There’s still a big medical market,” Sue said. “Quite a few oldies at Mum’s care home use spliffs for their arthritis. Even with eighty percent duty and thirty percent VAT, it’s still a damn sight cheaper than standard painkillers. From a man in the pub, it’s even cheaper.”
“Suppose so.” He looked at the big cloth bales being loaded onto a government truck. The harborside was swarming with the armed tactical-response team members, excitingly menacing in their black body armor. “Tim goes clubbing. I remember that whole culture.”
“Don’t go there, Jeff.”
“Yeah, right,” he muttered unhappily. But she was right; projecting Tim’s behavior based on what he could recall of his own late-teen antics was not a good idea. There were some things a father shouldn’t pry into. Especially when today’s kids seemed so much more sophisticated, and had so many more temptations placed in their way.
After English Newsweb’s Cornwall report came the European Court of Human Rights, where Rebecca Gillespie was suing both the EU Commission and the Catholic Church for violating a number of conventions against her. It was a case that had been going on for eight years, and was followed avidly by the media. Rebecca had been born a duofemale child, her parents both lesbians who had used the Monash treatment to conceive, the ova of one fertilized by the genetic material of the other thanks to a little biochemical encouragement. The treatment, indeed the whole concept, was condemned by the Vatican as an unholy act; and as sperm-free fertilization came under the broad legal definition of human cloning, which the Brussels Parliament was one of the first to make illegal, Rebecca felt persecuted by both church and state. Her entire adult life had been devoted to fighting judgments that she considered denied her right to exist, handed down even before her semilegal conception in Australia. It was a struggle that had turned her into a minor media celebrity, and produced a great many supporters from across the political spectrum, all of them loud. And once again the court had deferred judgment on yet another technicality.
Jeff and Sue watched the report in a vaguely embarrassed silence, carefully avoiding looking at each other. But then, Jeff reflected, that was always the way when you’d done something wrong a long time ago. Time always dulled the crime to a kind of
Rebecca Gillespie was followed by a feature on the forthcoming NASA sample return mission to Mars, which would act as a pathfinder for the projected manned mission in ten to fifteen years’ time. Sections of the robot probe were being ferried up to the aging American space station by the new Boeing scramjet spaceplanes. It was due to be assembled over the next eighteen months. Normally Jeff would have watched eagerly as the intricate chunks of astronautic hardware were integrated on the station’s satellite assembly platform. But he couldn’t focus on the astronauts in their bulky white suits as they jetted over the structure; his mind was busy with Tim scoring batches of dubious chemicals from some pusher in Stamford’s clubs. He was only eighteen, for God’s sake.
But I was doing it at that age.
Cannabis, though, not weird artificial molecules dreamed up in a university lab and misassembled by dodgy synthesizers. Anybody could handle cannabis. He sighed.
As a parent he was out of his depth again. Twice in a week. First girls, now drugs.
The image on the screen switched from outer space to a small Spanish town, where most of the buildings seemed to have whitewashed walls and red clay tile roofs. Police crime scene barriers had cordoned off a long street section, with uniformed, armed Europol officers keeping a few semi-interested members of the public away. At the center of the cordon, the stone pavement was stained with blood. Forensic team personnel in white overalls were crawling methodically along the road, waving small sensors around.
“There was another so-called Traitor’s Pension attack on a retired Englishman on the Costa del Sol last night,” the announcer said. “First reports from the local police indicate he used to work for the EU Agricultural Directorate. The EIC has already claimed responsibility for the act. This is the fifth in the last three weeks, all of which are believed to have been carried out by the same active EIC cell operating in the area.”
Knowing he didn’t want the answer, Jeff asked: “What’s a Traitor’s Pension?”
“They knock you down on the ground, then shoot you up the ass,” Sue explained. “It doesn’t actually kill you, but it ruins your guts. Genoprotein therapy can’t repair that kind of damage. The hospitals are getting quite used to the surgical procedure—they’ve had enough victims to practice on. But you still spend the rest of your life dosed up on painkillers and shitting through a plastic valve.”
