of traits that they were able to splice together. Everything that could give a child the best possible chance in life. Reading through it was the ultimate in temptation. As a prospective parent you just wanted to say yes to everything.
“How much do you want altered in our child?” she asked.
“I’m not sure. All the health stuff, I guess.” He gave her a questioning look, and she nodded. “What about appearance? They claim they’ve got every feature mapped out.”
“No,” she said. “Leave that alone. I want that part of her to be genuinely us, what we give her from ourselves. She should be able to look in the mirror and know where she came from and who she is.”
“Her?”
“Yes.” Annabelle smiled, and kissed the tip of his nose. “Her.”
56. CITY OF STONE AND MADRIGALS
OXFORD CAME AS AN ABRUPT TRANSLOCATION SHOCK after the quiet semireclusive life of a retirement estate in Rutland. Tim greeted university life with the same initial heart-flutter of reservation that all the millions of freshmen before him had undergone. It passed soon enough as he struggled bravely through the wall-to-wall parties that traditionally characterized freshmen week. His determination not to drink faltered on several occasions, though he never went back to the kind of destructive intake that had blighted his last few terms at Oakham. He could see that happening all too clearly among the other eighteen-year-olds who were experiencing their first true taste of away-from-home freedom, using it to reach maximum excess. So he merged into the mainstream with a minimal number of hiccups and gaffes.
The term played out against a backdrop of a classic autumn, with England’s climate once again shifting dramatically over a mere two weeks. After arriving when the daytime warmth lingered long into the twilight, he soon found himself digging out thicker clothes to survive days of bitingly cold wind and rain, and others of bright, low, yet strangely heatless sunlight. Trees succumbed to the encroaching frosts, shedding their leaves across the city to form a water-slicked shawl that made cycling and trike riding a dangerous adventure before the council crews cleared the gutters.
Tim went to most of his lectures. He signed on for soccer and badminton. He steered well clear of the youth wings of major—and minor—political parties. He tentatively started to make new friends. Everybody knew who he was, of course, which was somewhat unnerving. But he learned quickly enough to distinguish between who was interested purely in his mild celebrity status, and those who didn’t mind that. He discovered which pubs and clubs to go to.
To his credit, he called his mother almost once a week, and sent her txts most days. Alison, too, was on the contact list. As was Vanessa, though that dropped away as the term progressed—she was at Bristol University. The old crew from Oakham sent circular avtxts telling each other how they were getting on, though those were none too frequent. But he did stay in touch with Jeff. Nothing deeply significant, or emotionally meaningful—thank God. Tim found he got on best with his dad if they just swapped trivia: what he’d done today, what he’d eaten, lectures and essays. It was all perfectly normal, or at least as normal as it was ever going to get between the pair of them now. He was content with that. He even dutifully managed the occasional txt to Annabelle, whose modeling career seemed to have stalled.
And of course there was Jodie. Tim met her at the last party of freshmen week. She was taking computer sciences, and liked almost the same music as he did, though her taste in pre10 films was truly atrocious. Her hair was white-blonde, and came down below her shoulders. She was tall, and pretty, and came from a public school in Suffolk. Her family owned a lot of property in various European cities. All those little details locked together easily; with their similar backgrounds they could be very comfortable around each other. At first they were just friends, because he was still calling Vanessa on a daily basis. But then he decided that was stupid, he and Vanessa were never an item, not really—just a pleasant summer romance. It wasn’t long after that realization that they wound up in bed together.
NEITHER TIM NOR JODIE heard the first tentative little knock on his door. They were together on his room’s elderly leather sofa, squirming around in a reasonable approximation of a wrestling lock. He’d already got her blouse open, while his own trousers were down around his knees.
The knock came again.
Tim’s head came up, giving the door a worried look. For all he’d settled confidently into university life, he was still scared of the bulldogs who ruled the college. Prowling through the cloisters and quads in their black suits and hats, ever alert for recidivist activity, they inspired the same level of fear in the current student body as they had for centuries.
“Just a minute,” he called.
They hurriedly pulled their clothes back together. A last quick check with Jodie, who was now sitting primly on the sofa, and Tim opened the heavy oak door, a neutral smile in place.
Annabelle stood outside.
Tim just gaped dumbly at her. She was dressed in a black blouse with a vivid scarlet tartan skirt, all visible through the open front of a fawn-colored camel hair coat. Long looping gold necklaces completed the ensemble, making her appearance tremendously chic in comparison to the students her age. Tim very quickly damped down that thought.
“Hi, Tim,” she said. Her voice was quiet, almost shy.
“Hi. Er, come in. Please.”
Annabelle and Jodie looked at each other, then their gaze fell in unison to the bright pink fluffy sweater that was lying on the floor beside the sofa. Tim knew his face was red as he made the introductions.
“Sorry to barge in on you like this,” Annabelle said. “But I had to see you in person.”
“Why?” Tim asked. She was acting very strangely.
“You have to come home with me. I brought the car. I can take you now.”
“Home? Why?”
Annabelle bowed her head, as if she was no longer strong enough to hold herself upright. When she spoke he could barely hear her. “Jeff’s ill, Tim. Really ill.”
“He never said. I spoke to him a couple of days ago.” He was almost indignant with her: Such a thing couldn’t happen to his father.
“He hasn’t said anything to you; he didn’t want you to be upset. You know what he’s like.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
She simply shook her head. Tim was shocked to see a tear running down her cheek.
“What?” he demanded; her reaction was making him nervous, which he tried to cover by sounding annoyed.
“Tim!” Jodie warned.
“Sorry. Look, Annabelle, what is all this?”
“You have to come home.”
He looked to Jodie, who nodded encouragingly.
“Okay,” he said, holding his hands up in surrender. “I’ll get my coat.”
“Thank you,” Annabelle said. She dabbed at her cheek with a tissue.
“What did the medical team say?”
“He won’t let them in the house.”
“Jesus.” Tim was starting to get worried now. “What is wrong with him?”
“He wants to tell you himself.”
57. THE WATCHERS
