51. COMMITMENT
LUCY DUKE WAS WAITING in the lobby when the elevator doors opened. Krober must have called ahead to warn her when they were all on their way down.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked.
“Leaving.” Jeff hopped onto the pedwalk, with Annabelle at his side.
Lucy and the three bodyguards followed him on. “You’re crazy. Nobody’s allowed out.”
“It’s a free coun—Oh, no, it isn’t anymore, is it?” He smiled ingratiatingly at her.
“Why are you doing this? Where are you going?”
“To collect my son. He’s out there with the others, and your lot have just called in the storm troopers.”
For once Lucy’s composure cracked at the mention of Tim, and she grimaced in annoyance. “All right, look, let me see what I can do. There are undercover officers out there; they can take him to safety.”
“Don’t you get it? It has to be me. I’m the real reason he’s out there.”
“Suppose someone recognizes you.”
“With the way you’ve handled my profile, I’d be amazed if there’s anyone left out there who doesn’t.”
“You can’t leave. You can’t. That’s giving in to them, whatever personal reasons you might have. This is what you are, this summit, the superconductor project.”
Jeff turned and gave her a sad little smile. “But it’s not what I want to be.”
THE CAMERA CREWS covering the confrontation on the Connaught Bridge found them almost at once. A little knot of disturbance behind the police line, slowly moving forward toward the front rank, where officers were crouched down behind their shields. Lenses zoomed in to see Jeff pushing past the furious officers; Annabelle had her arms around his waist, almost as if she was being towed along behind. In unison, a dozen news anchors yelped: “That’s Jeff Baker.”
Jeff had to force himself along, every centimeter of the way. It was like being trapped inside a perpetual rugby scrum. Every time he shoved another policeman to one side he was screamed at.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
“Piss off, dickhead.”
Awkwardly held batons thumped painfully into his sides. He kept banging his head against the wide helmet collars as officers turned to see what was happening.
“Fucking moron, what are you doing?”
The air was heavy with the stench of burnt rubber, mixed with a stronger, more acidic smell: gas. He practically gagged each time he took a breath. His eyes were already smarting, big tears making everything smeary. Something landed on the helmet of the police officer next to him. The man swore as the plastic bottle shattered, drenching him in warm urine. “Little shits, I’m gonna kill me one later.”
Jeff used a sleeve to wipe the disgusting fluid from his face. The edge of a riot shield smacked across his shin. He held in the squawk of pain, trying to tough it out for Annabelle’s sake. He could feel her arms shaking badly as she clung to him.
Abruptly there was no more resistance. He’d reached the front row. Police were crouched before him, holding their overlapping shields firm against the tarmac like an ancient army of pikemen. In front of the scuffed and stained plastic was about twenty meters of road, empty apart from the litter of missiles. Then there were the protestors, an ever-moving row of youths with their heads covered in balaclavas or makeshift scarves. They taunted and chanted as they ran a few paces forward in challenge before scuttling back to be absorbed by the mass. There was always someone in the act of flinging an object at the police, sending it in a high arc over the resolute barrier of shields.
It wouldn’t be long until another full-on clash, Jeff knew. The distance between the two sides was already closing.
“Now,” he called out to Annabelle. He stepped over the crouched policeman, shoving the shields aside like some kind of jammed door.
“Hey, what the fuck—”
A big gauntlet closed around Jeff’s shoulder. He snapped his head around and stared directly into the goggles of a big policeman who’d grabbed him, seeing the confusion in the other’s eyes. “Take your hand off me, sonny boy, or I’ll smash your teeth so far down your throat you’ll be eating with your ass.” The fingers lost their grip. Probably due to surprise rather than the threat, Jeff reckoned.
Jeff stepped out through the gap in the shield. It was one of those moments where a single rational thought would have sent him racing back behind the police, desperate for sanctuary. Instead, he just made sure Annabelle got clear all right, then started to walk, striding along as if this was the most normal thing in the world.
It was only when he’d covered half the distance that he realized what he was actually doing, and muttered: “Oh shit, oh shit.” The youths ahead were the kind he’d spent most of his adult life trying to avoid. Hard-faced and cruel, brought up on some terrifying lawless sink estate, they’d stab him for a single euro. Meeting one was every middle-class boy’s nightmare.
“Jeff?” Annabelle called.
“Nothing, it’s okay.”
Someone up ahead pointed. “Oi, it’s Jeff Baker.” The name rumbled along the crowd like a small roll of thunder.
Jeff directed a modest shrug toward them. Quite a few people were staring at him now. He was closing the gap quickly, not giving them any time to react, keeping them off balance. The strategy seemed to work: He could see a lot of puzzled frowns above the bright triangles of cloth they wore over their lower faces.
Just before he reached the first of them, he turned around. With a broad grin, he raised a single stiff finger to the massed ranks of the now-silent riot police.
Cheers and whoops of delight rolled out from the protestors; several of them started clapping. Someone flung their arms around Jeff in greeting. More hands slapped him on the back. Annabelle was kissed several times. Dozens of people crowded around, wanting to say hello, to welcome him, to say thank you. “We knew you were all right, Jeff.” “You’re one of us, mate.” “This’ll show the bastards.”
They made their way slowly through the protestors, an osmotic process gradually filtering them away from the front and along the bridge. It was like some campaign rally; he had to shake hands with everyone they passed, to smile and say how much their cause meant to him. He’d never realized the bridge was so long.
Angry shouting broke out behind him. The distinctive dull
“Come on.” Jeff took her hand and they jogged away from the disturbance. With the other hand he fumbled his PCglasses on, and called Tim.
“You did it,” Tim cried down the link. “You really did it.”
Jeff dodged aside of a team of ten or so men with intent faces hurrying toward the skirmish; they looked like military types to him. “Of course I did it. Now where are you?”
They managed to find each other by shouting locations and directions in a farcical manner. Jeff would have laughed at how bizarre it was, not a hundred meters away and having to go: “Where? How far? Which way?” Except it was all too tragic for real humor.
Tim, Vanessa, Colin, Simon, and Rachel were all sheltering at the top of the circle’s slip road. Looking at them, Jeff remembered that last barbeque at the manor when they’d all fooled around in the pool and on the lawns. Happy youngsters keen for what the future might hold. It was as if a decade had passed. Tim’s hair was greasy, plastered down on his skull. Misty green dye had settled on his clothes in long streaks, staining his neck and fingers; a long smear covered his nose where he’d wiped a hand. His eyes were dark and very tired. Even his fancy Hi-shot PCglasses were bent.
He managed a forlorn little smile when Jeff and Annabelle emerged through the running throng. Jeff gave him a quick hug. “You look like shit.”
