Incorporated in the city boundary sign was the prominent declaration: PSP Free Zone.
‘Oh yeah?’ said Gabriel.
Greg let the snipe ride, though he conceded she had a point. Leicester council had earned a reputation for sycophancy during Armstrong’s presidency; it was one of the last to acknowledge the Party’s perdition.
That obedience was the root of its downfall; a numbing historical repetition, those showing the most loyalty receiving the least. With such devotion assured, the PSP had no need to pump in bribe money. Leicester had declined as Peterborough had risen. Now the city’s New Conservative-dominated council was striving hard to obliterate the image of the past in an attempt to attract hard-industry investment.
‘Give them a chance,’ Greg said. ‘It’s only been two years.’
‘Once a Trot, always a Trot.’
‘Exactly where would you be happy living?’ he asked in exasperation.
‘Mars, I expect. Turn left here.’
‘I know.’
He turned off the Uppingham Road and nudged into the near-solid file of bicycle traffic along Spencefield Lane. The big old trees whose branches had once turned the road into a leafy tunnel were long dead. New sequoias had been planted to replace them. They were grand trees, but Greg couldn’t help wondering whether they were a wise choice if the residents were aiming for permanency; give them a couple of centuries and the sequoias would be skyscraper high.
The original trees had been trimmed into near-identical pillars six metres high, supporting giant cross-beams over the road. Each arch was swathed in a different coloured climbing rose. The sun shone through the petals, creating a blazing sequence of coronal crescents. It was like driving under a solid rainbow.
Greg slowed the Duo to a walking pace as they passed the entrance to an old school. Cars were clustered along the verge ahead, sporty Renaults, several Mercs, one old Toyota GX4. Image cars.
‘Shouldn’t there be sailboards strapped on top of them?’ Gabriel said under her breath.
Greg concentrated on house numbers, praying she’d snap out of it before long. Of course, he could always ask her when her mood was due to end. He clamped down on a grin. ‘That’s the address.’
The house was hidden behind a head-high brick wall that had a hurricane fence on top, a thick row of evergreen firs hid most of the building from the road. The gate was a sturdy metal-reinforced chainlink, painted white. Cameras were perched on each side, their casings weather-dulled.
‘He’s having a party,’ Gabriel said, with facetious humour disguising the tingle of nerves Greg knew would be there.
‘How nice. A big one?’
‘For him. It’s enough to provide us with cover, anyway.’
Greg parked the Duo beyond the last of the guests’ cars. ‘Front or back?’
‘Front, of course. Your card is good for it.’
He felt a burn of anticipation warming his skin, heightening senses. Black liver-flesh of the gland throbbing enthusiastically.
They strolled back to the gate, unhurried, unconcerned. Greg showed his Event Horizon card to the post, using his little finger for activation. The gate’s electric bolt thudded, and the servos swung it back.
It remained open behind them, its control circuitry bleached clean. He sent a mental note of thanks to Royan.
The mossy gravel drive crunched under their feet. O’Donal’s house was a large one, three storeys of dull russet brick with inset stone windows, the slates on the mansard roof a peculiar olive-green. Nobody had bothered with the front garden for years, the grass was tangled and overgrown, and dead cherry trees were still standing. Some sort of stone ornament, a birdbath or a sundial, poked up through a tumble of cornflowers. A brand-new scarlet BMW convertible was parked in front of the triple garage.
‘The man that answers the door is a minder, he’ll make trouble if you let him,’ Gabriel said. ‘Take him out straight away.’
‘Right.’ He rang the bell. Music and laughter wafted over the roof.
Greg saw him coming through the smoked glass pane set into the grimy hardwood door, an obscure blotch of brown motion, swelling to cloud the whole rectangle.
The door was pulled open.
‘Hello, sorry we’re late.’
The man behind the door was street muscle in a suit; early twenties, tall, stringy, dark hair, broad forehead crinkling into a frown.
Greg stepped forward neatly, one foot on the mat the other coming up, further and further. Fast. It was victory through surprise. A smiling man and a portly spinster eager to party just didn’t register as a threat. Not until the carbon-mesh-reinforced toe of Greg’s desert boot smashed into his kneecap.
His mouth opened to suck in air, eyes wide with shock. He was toppling forwards, leg giving way, and bending to clutch desperately at his shattered knee.
Greg brought his fist straight up, catching the minder’s chin as he was on his way down. The force of the blow snapped his head back, lifting him off his feet, back arching, arms and legs flung wide.
He crashed back on to the shiny blue ceramic tiling, skull making a nasty cracking sound, a thin stream of pea-green vomit sloshing from his slack mouth.
Greg took in the dark hall behind him with a quick glance, espersense wide for alarmed minds. Big tasteless urns holding willowy arrangements of dried pampas grass making the most impression. But the hall was empty. Nobody had witnessed their arrival.
‘Jesus, Greg.’ Gabriel was kneeling beside the prone minder, feeling for a pulse.
Greg opened the cloakroom door. ‘In here.’ There was a wicker dog-basket on the floor, jackets were piled high on a washbasin; it smelt of urine and detergent. ‘Come on!’
Gabriel shot him a filthy look, but took hold of the minder’s left arm as Greg grabbed the right. They pulled him across the tiles.
‘If he was going to die you’d have told me not to hit so hard.’
‘You know bloody well it doesn’t work like that,’ Gabriel said. ‘There are a million ways you could’ve dealt with him.’
‘Well, is he going to be all right or not?’
‘I don’t bloody know, some futures have him dying.’
Greg shoved the dog basket out of the way and left the minder with his head propped up against the toilet bowl. Gabriel rolled up one of the jackets and slipped it behind the minder’s head. He was still breathing.
‘How many futures?’ Greg asked.
‘Some.’
Greg recognized the defensive tone, and relaxed. The minder would survive.
‘There’s a rear belt-holster,’ Gabriel said reluctantly.
Greg knelt down and felt underneath the minder. Sure enough, he was carrying a Mulekick, a flattened ellipsoid in grey plastic, small enough to fit snugly into Greg’s palm, with a single sensitive circle positioned for the thumb and a metal tip that discharged an electric shock strong enough to stun a victim senseless.
‘We’ll need it later,’ Gabriel said cryptically.
Greg dropped it into his jacket pocket and followed her back out into the hall.
The house would’ve given any half-way competent interior designer nightmares. To Greg it looked as though it’d been decorated by someone watching a home-shopping catalogue channel and picking out all the furniture and fittings which had the brightest colours. There was no attempt to blend styles.
The lounge had two three-piece suites, one upholstered in overstuffed white leather, the other done in a bold lemon and purple zigzag print. A harlequin array of biolum spheres hung from the ceiling on long brass chains, imitating a planetarium’s solar system display. Dark African shields hung on the wall, along with spears, tomahawks, broadswords, and longbows. The weapons were interspersed with antique rock-concert posters, mostly from Leicester’s De Montfort hall – Bowie, Be Bop Deluxe, Blue Oyster Cult, David Hunter, The Stranglers, one for The Who at Granby Hall in 1974. If they were real, and they looked it, they must’ve cost a fortune.
The party was in full
swing on the other side of the lounge’s sliding patio doors. Thirty or so people were clustered around the back garden’s baby swimming-pool. Led Zeppelin was blasting out of tombstone-sized Samsung speakers.
A petite blonde girl in a lime-green one-piece swimsuit shoved the patio door open. Robert Plant’s fearsome vocals slammed into Greg’s eardrums. She came in dripping water all over the deep white pile carpet. He caught a whiff of bittersweet air. Quite a few of the partygoers round the pool were puffing away on fat Purple Rain reefers.
‘Hi,’ the blonde said when she saw Greg and Gabriel. ‘We’re out of champagne again.’
‘Can I help?’ Greg asked.
‘S’all right, I know where it is.’ She looked at Gabriel. ‘You want a suit for the pool?’
‘No thank you.’
‘We’ll get something to drink first,’ Greg said. ‘Have a rap with Ade. Is he out there?’
‘Sure,’ said the blonde. ‘Over there by the grill, in the lubes stupid hat. Hey, can you cook?’
‘Sure.’
‘Try and get him to let you do the steaks, OK? He’s half pissed already, we’re gonna be eating coal if it’s left to him.’
‘You got it. How do you want yours?’
She pulled long wet strands of hair from her face, uncovering a dense constellation of freckles. Hazel eyes sparkled at him. ‘Juicy,’ she purred.
‘Already done.’
She peeked surreptitiously at the people outside. ‘Catch you later,’ she promised. There was a corrupting wiggle in her walk as she headed for the kitchen.
‘Would you like me to wait?’ Gabriel enquired, oozing salaciousness.
‘We have to stay in character.’
‘Nice for some. Let’s get this over with.’
‘How do you want to play it?’
Gabriel stared thoughtfully out at the party. ‘Sucker him in here, first. Then arm-twist him into taking us to his gear cache. We’ll apply the real pressure there.’
‘Is that here in the house?’
‘Yes. In the basement. Quite a set-up. Our Tentimes is an ambitious lad.’
They went out through the patio door into heat, noise, and a smell of charring meat. None of the guests paid them any attention, they were all concentrating on the pool.
Somebody had rigged a pole across the water. Two naked girls were sitting astride it, facing each other; one was white with sunburnt shoulders, the second was Indian. They were whacking each other with big orange pillows. The crowd roared its approval as the white girl began to slip. She fell in slow motion, abandoning the pillow and gripping frantically at the pole, sliding inexorably towards the horizontal. A flurry of blows from the Indian girl speeding her progress, aided and abetted by wild shouts of encouragement from the side of the pool. At the last minute she let go of the pole and grabbed the Indian girl. They both shrieked as they hit the water. The white flowerbloom of spray closed over them sending up a plume which soaked some of the spectators.
Groans and cheers went up. The girls surfaced giggling and spluttering. Furious little knots of partygoers formed, passing money back and forth.
‘Jenna next,’ someone called.
‘And Carrie.’
‘Two to one on Carrie.’
‘Bollocks, evens.’
‘I’ll take that.’
The two new girls began to edge towards each other along the pole.
Ade O’Donal stood on the cracked ochre flagstones at the shallow end of the pool, white chef’s hat drooping miserably, a wooden spatula in his hand. According to Royan’s data squirt he was twenty-four, but his sandy hair was already in retreat, both cheeks were sinking, becoming gaunt, his skin was pasty white, reddening from too much sun. He wore an oversized azure cotton shirt speckled by sooty oil spots from the barbecue, and his loud fruit-pattern Bermuda shorts told Greg who had chosen the house’s furniture.
O’Donal grinned gormlessly round the faces of his friends as the girls poised ready. Then his eyes met Greg’s and froze.
The wooden spatula slashed downwards. ‘Go,’ O’Donal shouted. The girls began pummelling at each other, the blows from their saturated pillows sending out clouds of sparkling droplets. Partygoers began cheering again. The blonde in the lemon swimming suit was walking round the pool filling glasses, a magnum clasped in each hand.
The Indian girl clambered out of the pool, cinnamon skin glistening, and shook her long black dreadlocks. She pressed up against O’Donal, her high conical breasts leaving damp imprints on his shirt as she kissed him. He handed her his glass, which she tossed down in one smooth gulp.
O’Donal pushed her away and walked round the pool towards Greg and Gabriel.
They retreated into the lounge. O’Donal followed.
‘Are you with someone?’ he asked; his voice was firm, ready to deal sternly with gatecrashers.
‘We’re here to see you, Ade,’ Greg said.
‘This is a private party, pal. Guests only.’
‘Private party. Big house. Lots of expensive friends. You’re coming up in the world, Tentimes,’ Gabriel said.
O’Donal’s jaw muscles hardened. He slid the patio door shut, muting the music and catcalls. Greg sensed the cold apprehension rising in his mind. O’Donal’s eyes kept straying to the door leading to the hall.
‘Sorry, Tentimes,’ Greg said. ‘Your hard case couldn’t make it. It’s just you and us.’
‘Will you quit with that handle,’ O’Donal hissed edgily. ‘These people don’t know who I am.’
‘What do they think you are?’
‘Programmer on a commission to Hansworth Logic.’ He brightened. ‘Hey, I never expected you to show in person, y’know. I mean, I don’t mind you coming, no way. I just didn’t think it was the way you worked. So what is it, you want me to run another burn?’
‘You’re sweating, Tentimes,’ said Gabriel. ‘This is all new to you, isn’t it? The high life, money, girls?’
‘We’d never have guessed,’ Greg said, looking pointedly round the lounge.
‘Hey, look, what the fuck is this?’ O’Donal demanded. ‘And what have you done to Brune?’
‘Don’t know, didn’t stop to check,’ said Greg. ‘What does it matter? Ace hotrod like you can afford plenty more like him.’
O’Donal’s apprehension now blossomed into outright worry. A little muscle spasm rippled across his bony shoulders.
The pillow fight outside had degenerated into a wrestling match. One girl ripped the bikini top off the other. The spectators whooped approval.
O’Donal licked his lips. ‘Hey, come on, who are you people?’
‘We’re from Event Horizon,’ said Greg.
O’Donal’s already pale face blanched still further. ‘Oh, shit.’ He took a half step backwards, ready to turn and bolt, then stopped at the sight of the Walther eightshot in Greg’s hand.
‘You’re not used to this, are you, Tentimes?’ Gabriel asked with silky insistence. ‘A solo hotrod, your combat is all mental. Well, this time the feedback is physical. You want my advice? Play ball. Don’t annoy us. There are another seven who took part in the blitz. We’ll just work down the list until we get some co-operation.’
‘I didn’t have any choice!’
‘Tell us about it,’ Greg suggested. ‘Downstairs.’
‘Down? Where?’
‘Your terminals,’ Gabriel said.
‘Shit, how …’ O’Donal clamped his mouth shut as Greg flicked the Walther’s nozzle towards the door.
Out in the hall O’Donal stopped and sniffed the air, then his eyes found the smear of viscous liquid on the tiles. A small pulse of anger coloured his thoughts. ‘Through here,’ he said, pointing dully at a recessed door.
‘You open it,’ Gabriel ordered. ‘Seeing as how it’s keyed to your palmprint. I’d hate my colleague to receive that thousand-volt charge.’
O’Donal swallowed hard, almost a gulp. As he turned to the door Greg slapped the back of his head, knocking his face against the f
laking varnish. The cook’s hat fell off.
‘Shit!’ There was real fear in O’Donal’s voice and mind. He looked at them to plead, a bead of blood seeping out of his left nostril. ‘I wasn’t gonna. Honest, shit. I wouldn’t have. Shit, you’ve gotta believe me!’
‘Sure,’ Gabriel crooned.
Behind the hall door were fifteen steps leading down to another door made of bronze-coloured metal. It slid open at O’Donal’s voice command.
‘Impressive,’ Gabriel murmured.
The basement had been built as a wine cellar; the scars where the racks had been ripped out were still visible on the rough brick walls. A metal air-conditioning duct which had ensured the bottles were kept at a perfectly maintained temperature ran along the ceiling.
The basement was a hotrod’s crypt now, smelling faintly of acetone. There were five terminals sitting on a low pine table, all different makes, each hardwired with customized augmentation modules. Hundreds of memox crystals were stacked neatly on narrow oak shelving. Four big cubes clung to the wall facing the table, two on either side of a long flatscreen which was lit up like a football stadium scoreboard. The Gracious Services circuit, detailing burns in progress, hackers on line, requests, available umpires. Greg searched, and sure enough saw Wildace’s name.
‘Expensive, too,’ Greg said. ‘According to the circuit you’ve only been solo for six months. Means you’ve been scoring pretty good, Tentimes. How do you do it?’
‘What … what are you going to do to me?’
Greg shoved the Mulekick against the matt-black surface of the Hitachi terminal on the table. There was a flat crack as the power tubes discharged. A zillion precious delicate junctions were smelted into worthless cinders. The smell of scorched plastic filled the air.
O’Donal yelped as though he’d received the jolt. ‘Oh, shit-fire, do you know how much that cost me?’ He stared aghast at the ruined Hitachi.
‘Don’t know, don’t care,’ Greg said indifferently. ‘Now, where’s the money coming from?’
‘They give me targets, pay good.’
‘They?’
‘They, him, her, shit I don’t know. We’ve never met.’
The Mandel Files, Volume 1 Page 25