Misspent Youth

the air toward them, bouncing and spinning off the roads and pavements. Equally erratic views from behind police lines showed a deluge of stones and smashed timbers descending on riot shields.

“My God,” Annabelle murmured. “It’s like watching the fall of Rome.”

“Not quite that bad,” Jeff said. He wished he could sound more convincing.

An aerial shot of Trafalgar Square exposed people flowing into it from western and northern streets, before merging together to flood along the Strand. The camera zoomed in to reveal a gang of men armed with scaffolding poles attacking one of the fountains. Hundreds more stood around watching and cheering. Then a group waving Union Jack flags approached the fountain. A violent fight started. The water in the fountain’s pool swiftly turned red.

“They’re turning on each other,” she said.

“There’s a lot of different groups down there. They don’t all share the same views.”

Annabelle was flinching as the screen displayed the violence in high-resolution detail. “It’s awful.”

Jeff ordered the screen to go back to a news studio. The anchorwoman was busy receiving updates from police and government sources. Prime Minister Lacey had left the Marshall Centre after barely ten minutes; his presence had been deemed counterproductive by his security team. The police guarding the summit area exclusion zone absolutely refuted the allegation that they were in danger of losing control of the docks to the protestors.

An official estimate of the number of protestors in London was a hundred fifty thousand, although the reporters were hinting it was actually closer to a quarter of a million. Other, more localized trouble spots were flaring as people realized there were no police left on the beat to enforce law and order. The Metropolitan Police chief had officially requested reinforcements from Europol. Even with the express Eurostar link from Paris and Brussels direct into St. Pancras, it would take the new troops several hours to arrive, and then they had to deploy. Full order would be enforced by the next morning, the chief promised.

“Ye gods, they must mean the Europol Riot Suppression Force,” Jeff said in dismay. “They’ve never been deployed in England before. People aren’t going to like that.” He glanced anxiously toward the window.

An unconfirmed report from Downing Street suggested that when the scale of the protest was assessed last week the Metropolitan Police chief had asked for Europol reserves to be moved to standby positions in England. He’d been turned down by Brussels on Central Treasury orders.

The marchers that the police had wanted to halt earlier were now arriving, moving through Canning Town and East Ham to swell the ranks of the existing protestors in the university campus. Beacon lines of fires marked their sporadic progress out of central London. Halls of residence and faculty buildings had also been broken into, with large-scale looting now in progress. Up on the Connaught Bridge, the police line was holding, though it was almost invisible to cameras beneath a pall of smoke and tear gas. Dark military-style vehicles with water cannon were rumored to be moving along roads in Beckton, Silvertown, and North Wollwich, though the camera crews seemed unable to track them down.

“That does it,” Jeff said. “I’m calling Tim again. He’s got to leave.”

“Do you think he will?”

“I don’t know, but I can’t just stand back and do nothing.” Despite the bedlam raging round the Marshall Centre, the datasphere interface with Jeff’s hotel room was perfect. The call went through immediately. There was a lot of noise and background shouting coming through the link; Jeff automatically raised his voice. “Tim, are you all right?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

Jeff frowned; the boy sounded terribly weary. “Where are you?”

“Up on the big road behind the university. It’s not so bad here. Rachel got a dose of the gas the police bastards are shooting at us. We had to take her away from the front line. Some people gave us water to wash her eyes out. She’s not so bad now. We’re taking a breather till we go back.”

The front line! Oh, Jesus. “Tim, listen to me. The police have called the Europol Riot Suppression Force in. You have to leave.”

“No.”

“Tim, you’ve won, okay? They’ve canceled all of tonight’s events; and tomorrow morning’s are under review. One of the organizers told me the government was considering announcing the summit is off. They were hoping that would make the protestors pack up and go home, but I think it’s too late for that now. You have to get out.”

“Are you leaving?”

“Not for a while. They won’t let us out.”

“Then I’m staying.”

“You can’t, not because of me. Tim, I don’t contribute anything to this. I’m a physicist, I’m just one of the dancing bears, for God’s sake.”

“No, you’re not, Dad; you’re a lot more than that, you’re the proof that Brussels works. They justify themselves through you.”

Jeff heard himself groan out loud. This went way beyond standard parental concern. He just knew there was going to be major trouble when the RSF arrived. Tim could very well get hurt, badly hurt, because he was young and stupid and full of hope. And he was going to stay to make his point. Something like the RSF wasn’t part of the equation that Tim and his friends considered, because they weren’t real and bad things didn’t happen to good people, and anyway this was all an exciting game. Eurocrats in their gray suits will listen if we shout loud enough, and the world will become a better place because of it. Jeff realized he was seriously going to have to do something, make some gesture. Tim really was stubborn enough to stay outside because he was inside. And Jeff just couldn’t allow his son to come to any harm. He was surprised by how strong that determination was, like some kind of tectonic force moving him irresistibly. Just like risking so much for Annabelle.

“All right, Tim, I’ll leave.”

“What?”

“Jeff!” Annabelle hissed. “You can’t.”

He held up a finger, pleading for silence. “I’ll leave. But you have to promise to leave with me.”

“Do you mean that?”

“Yes. Do you?”

“Er, guess so. How are you going to get out?”

“Leave that to me. Can you make your way up to the Connaught circle?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll see you there.” He ended the call.

“How do you think you’re going to get to him?” Annabelle asked. “Jeff, this is crazy, it’s a war zone out there.”

He shivered and glanced down out the window, rubbing his hands against the cold generated by the room’s air conditioning. The police and protestors on the bridge were taking a break. There was about thirty meters between them; the smoke and tear gas had cleared, with the occasional stone or bottle still being thrown. “Not all the time. I’ll just wait for a pause.”

“What about me?”

The accusation in her voice was crippling. He circled his arms round her. “I want you to stay here. It’s safe.”

“No. I want to be with you.”

“Annabelle, I couldn’t live with myself if both you and Tim get hurt.”

“I’m not staying here by myself; it’s too scary. What if that mob breaks in?”

“Natalie and the others will stay with you; they can hardly go out onto the streets. You’ll be safe.”

“Please, Jeff, don’t do this. Don’t leave me.”

“I have to go, you know I do. It’s not because I want to prove anything to Tim. It’s because I really do care for him, and I cannot allow him to be hurt. And he will be. The RSF will come storming in and crack as many heads as they can. It’ll be like Bonn and Paris and Copenhagen all over again, but much bigger. I have to go. I’m sorry, but I have to.”

“Then I’m coming with you.”