day had brought them closer. The small screen on the wall played on silently, casting a wan gray-blue light across their bodies until Jeff finally drew the duvet over them.
In the small hours they saw that twelve thousand RSF troops, Europe’s total contingent, had surrounded the University of East London and Beckton Park. The entire campus was on fire, its elegant circular halls of residence burning like giant brick braziers, faculty buildings haloed by flame as curving roofs buckled and subsided.
The RSF advanced, taking a more continental approach to law enforcement than the exhausted Metropolitan Police they had replaced. Plastic baton rounds were fired directly at protestors, with ranges down to a near-lethal two meters. Any protestor unlucky enough to fall or stumble as the RSF closed in would be surrounded by black-clad officers wielding whiplike truncheons that pounded away until the body stopped moving. English civil rights activists appeared in the news stream studios demanding the arrest of the RSF commanders who authorized such illegal brutality. Snatch squads dragged bleeding, screaming protestors into prisoner containment carriers. Vivid flames from burning buildings and wrecked cars competed with blue and red emergency vehicle strobes to illuminate the shocking scenes in macabre flares of light.
Out of the bedlam in some nameless street in Beckton, the first gunshots of the conflict were heard. A chorus of screams followed. People surged in terror and panic, not knowing which way to flee. The air was thick with missiles and the stench of burning plastic. Two RSF officers lay prone on the pavement. Twenty cameras zoomed in for a close-up, showing the pools of blood slowly expanding across the tarmac. Enraged RSF troops charged into the nearest group of protestors. Lenses backed by light amplification circuitry followed their long steel-webbed truncheons as they rose and fell, striking at unprotected flesh with a hornet’s fury.
In another part of town, more shots were fired. Protestors and RSF lines clashed again and again.
“They have to give us a referendum now,” Annabelle said. “Look what’s happening because they don’t care about us.”
Jeff turned to look at her face; the faint light from the screen revealed only placid features. “That’s not Brussels bureaucrats out there burning the streets.”
“They’re the cause, ultimately. I hate them. Why can’t they leave us alone? Why can’t we make our own decisions? None of those rioters would be allowed in the country if we were in charge of ourselves again.”
“Funny thing. They all hate Brussels as much as we do.”
“Then they should go and burn Brussels down, not London.”
“I expect they will, eventually,” Jeff said.
DAWN REVEALED numerous bodies lying in the street. RSF officers given traitor’s pensions, civilians battered to death. Their ignominy was the same in the wan light. Over a hundred fifty burnt-out buildings sent up thin streamers of rancid smoke as firemen waded through their sodden interiors to begin safe securement procedures. Special courts were convened to process and charge everyone the RSF had arrested. Politicians flocked into early morning news studios, all of them managing to condemn the way Europol had behaved, pointing out how little difference there was between them and the foreign marauders. First cost estimates of the damage to the city were in the range of ten billion euros. Both the mayor and prime minister demanded that the Central Treasury pay for it all; after all, most of the damage had been caused by continental citizens. President Jean Breque promised to consider any such request sympathetically. Such vagueness was eagerly seized upon by his opponents as further evidence of his administration’s laxity.
Over forty thousand protestors were still camped out amid the ruins of the university campus. They were surrounded by seven thousand RSF troops, who waited patiently for them to surrender, their orders now to simply starve them out of the smoldering desolation that they had created. It took another three days until the last die- hard activists were hauled away in prisoner containment carriers. The political blame-throwing went on for a great deal longer.
53. ALIEN HOME GROUND
WHEN TIM LOOKED AROUND the front of the manor he was almost surprised that nothing had changed. So many other aspects of his life had altered it seemed unreasonable that the facade and gardens remained the same. It was another standard high-season afternoon, a roasting sun turning the air so thick that it soaked up any sounds.
He pushed the e-trike’s parking legs down onto the gravel, and took his helmet off. The Jag was sitting outside the garage. One of the younger boys from the village had just washed it, and was now rubbing down the gleaming bodywork with a leather cloth. Tim gave him a hurried wave before pulling his sunglasses on.
The front doors were open. He went into the hall, where the air conditioning was losing its fight against the encroaching heat. Natalie Cherbun was in the small living room watching the monitor screens. She gave him a small authentic smile. “Hello, Tim.”
“Hi. You’re all okay, then?”
“I wasn’t out on the streets, no. I had the easy duty in the hotel. Especially after your father left.”
“Ah. Right. Good.” He found it tough to look her in the eye, especially as he was so conscious of the dye stains still marking his neck. It was a week since the last of the protestors had been picked up, a week in which every English news stream and current affairs show had been filled with vitriolic demands that the disgrace that was Europol should be disbanded at the very least, and President Breque thrown into jail along with the force’s senior officers. The foreign animals who’d run amok should be tried in England by English judges; there was even talk of bringing back the jury system. Agreeing with such claims was easy when they were on screen, but when facing a Europol officer in the flesh it was a mite more difficult. “I’ll, er, go through then.”
“Good luck.”
Annabelle was sunbathing topless out on the terrace, wearing the world’s smallest bikini thong. Tim approached her slowly, still a little unsure how to behave toward her. She was lying on one of the sunloungers under a floppy ultraviolet filter parasol. He’d never seen her such a dark shade before. Naturally, Annabelle’s skin didn’t merely go brown; her tan gave her a wondrously healthy golden hue.
Someone was sitting on the sunlounger beside her. Another girl, the two of them chattering away and laughing.
Tim almost backed away. Then Annabelle saw him and let out a happy cry. “Tim!” She bounded up off the sunlounger, her smile wide and welcoming. Just the way he always remembered. “How are you?” she demanded.
“I’m okay. Suppose.”
Her expression settled into something close to serious. “It’s nice to see you again.”
“Yeah, same.”
“I’m glad you’re here and cool about it,” she said. “Last week changed a lot of things for all of us, didn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“So? Friends again?”
“Sure.” Tim gave her a lame smile. It was all he ever could do with Annabelle, just get washed along in her wake trying desperately to keep his head above water. Her hair was different now, he noticed; she’d had it straightened, although it looked very natural. She’d lost a few kilos as well, which made her body look even fitter than before—if such a thing were possible. The overall effect was to keep her appearance girlish, but with a touch of sophistication she’d previously lacked.
He couldn’t recall exactly who’d said it was better to have loved and lost than never loved at all, but they’d clearly never stood in front of a near-naked Annabelle remembering what it had been like….
Annabelle darted forward and kissed him before he had time to react, or dodge. There was just the hint of a tease to her smile. “I want you to meet someone,” she said, beckoning the other girl. “This is Yoni.”
“Hi, Tim,” Yoni said. “Pleased to meet you. I’ve heard all about you.” She giggled wildly.
At first Tim thought she was drunk. Her voice was childlike, and the way she looked at him was so spaced out she could have been a groupie to his rock star. She was a couple of years older than he and Annabelle, and
