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 canapes 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
