Jeff paid for the Mulligan Residential Care Hall in Uppingham, where her mother now lived, a private home with round-the-clock nursing and hotel-style accommodation. It had been written into their marriage contract.
Sue visited at least once a week. It was a level of devotion that she fully acknowledged grew out of the guilt for her wayward teenage years. Nonetheless, she never let a week slip.
Mulligan Hall was on the town’s outskirts, its broad grounds bordering the A47 bypass. It had been built as a hotel thirty years ago, situated so that its residents could benefit from splendid views across the rolling countryside. Since then the town had expanded, surrounding it with an estate of low-cost social housing: almost identical yellow-brick boxes with silvered thermoglass windows and shiny black solar cell roof panels. The golf ball–size spheres of police District Surveillance Scheme cameras peeped out from the eaves, as ubiquitous as twentieth-century TV aerials, providing multiple coverage of the estate’s streets. A high brick wall covered in GM thorn-ivy separated the hall’s grounds from those of its neighbors.
Sue’s Mercedes DX606 coupe slid silently past the open gates. She parked in her usual spot in the shade of a big sycamore tree and walked into the lobby. The young receptionist looked up as she entered. “I think your mother’s in the garden room, Mrs. Baker.”
“Thanks.”
“Um.” The girl was coloring. “The director said to ask if you could see him when you’re finished. If you have the time.”
“That’s fine,” Sue assured her. It was an unusual request; she couldn’t think what the director wanted.
As a hotel Mulligan Hall hadn’t lasted ten years; bankruptcy arrived in the wake of global fuel rises and the increasing dominance of the datasphere. Transport and its related industries were badly hit by the societal, political, and technological changes of the new century. But the building did not go unused for long. Europe’s badly skewed demographics were giving rise to a vast demand for care facilities as the continent’s population aged and the birth rate continued its gradual decline.
In England, care homes run by the local councils were put under greater and greater pressure as the number of residents continued to increase year after year. No matter how much money Government allocated, there was never enough to provide full service, and care-staff shortages had been acute for as long as Sue could remember.
Mulligan Hall was strictly for those who could afford it, for which Sue was profoundly grateful. She couldn’t stand the idea of her delicate mother in one of the council homes. Walking down the clean, well-decorated central corridor, she could almost believe the Hall was still a hotel. It was only the function of rooms that had altered. The cocktail bar was now a physiotherapy clinic, the snooker room had become a massage and reflexology center, while the original indoor swimming pool had been greatly extended to provide all sorts of hydrotherapy. Upstairs, the entire third floor was given over to a specialist ward for genoprotein treatments. Best of all, it didn’t smell like an old folks’ home.
The garden room was a big semicircular space with tall glass walls and Victorian-style black and white marble floor tiles. Ladies now too old to lunch sipped their afternoon tea as they sat around in the room’s cane furniture. Sue’s mother, Karen, was curled up in a broad winged chair that faced the lily pond outside. The tea tray on the glass-topped table beside her hadn’t been touched.
Sue walked over to her, ignoring the stares and knowing nods from the other residents. She knelt down beside the chair, and touched her mother’s arm. “Hello, Mummy.”
Karen’s attention wavered from the small screen, where she was watching Nicholas Parsons asking the questions on Sale of the Century. It was a GoldYear access, a company that rebroadcast seventies, eighties, and nineties programs in the daily order they were originally shown, even including the day’s news. It was a service mainly used by people over fifty to quench their nostalgia. Provider costs were met by a small amount of tweaking using modern image techniques. For ITV the ads were modified with computer inserts, changing the products the old ads were promoting to contemporary items, while on BBC programs GoldYear simply used placement inserts, with modern products superimposed over their historical counterparts.
“Susan, hello.” Karen gave her daughter a slightly puzzled look.
Sue picked the remote off the table and turned the volume down. The way genoprotein treatments had stabilized her looks in her midtwenties seemed to be a constant source of confusion to the old woman now. At least Karen had recognized her today. The last few years had seen a steady deterioration in her condition. The biomedical companies liked to claim that they’d defeated Alzheimer’s disease with their treatments and therapies. But Karen had contracted a variant that was resistant to the efforts of standard treatments.
“How are you feeling today, Mummy?”
Karen patted at her bare arms. She was wearing a blue cotton flower-pattern dress without any sleeves. “You know, I think I’m a little cold, dear.”
“Me too. It must be the air conditioning they’ve got in here. Shall we go for a walk in the garden? It’ll be warmer out there in the sunlight.”
“If you like, dear.” She took a last look at Nicholas Parsons and tried to raise herself out of the chair. Her thin arms trembled as she pushed her way up.
She’s only a few years older than Jeff, Sue thought bitterly. Karen’s recent decline hadn’t been purely mental; she’d lost a lot of weight, resulting in a turkey neck and long folds of flesh on her arms and legs. Her hair was now snow-white. Even with the Hall’s hairdresser washing and styling it once a week, the thinness could no longer be disguised.
Sue took her mother’s arm and escorted her out through the French doors and onto the brick path circling the garden. The fountain in the lily pond made a loud gurgling sound as it foamed down the central statue of Venus.
“What a lovely summer it’s been,” Karen said.
“Not quite over yet, Mummy.”
“No, no, of course not. They do seem to stretch on so these days.”
“I know.” She stopped by a bed of thick scarlet rosebushes, the flowers as wide as dinner plates. “Don’t these smell lovely?”
Karen bent over to sniff one. “My sense of smell isn’t what it was, you know, dear. I must be getting old.”
“No, Mummy, you’re not.”
They moved on.
“When are you going to bring that boy around to see me again?” Karen asked. “What was his name now? Daniel, was it? I liked him. He has prospects. And you’re not getting any younger, my girl, for all you’re a pretty thing. You have to start thinking about these things now.”
Sue couldn’t help the slight sigh that eased out through her lips. Daniel Roper had been a city executive who had taken her to Italy for a couple of weekends when she was seventeen—she couldn’t even remember exactly what his job was now. “I haven’t seen Daniel for a long time, Mummy. I’m with Jeff now. You remember Jeff, don’t you?” Sue hoped her mother hadn’t seen any of the recent media reports on Jeff. God alone knew what kind of reaction that would kindle in her faltering mind. The Hall’s domestic computer had been instructed not to allow her to access any current news streams featuring the Baker family.
Karen looked around blankly at the deep turquoise sky. “Where’s Timmy? I always like it when Timmy visits.”
“Tim’s at school today, Mummy. He couldn’t come, but he sends his love.” For whatever reason, Tim never argued with her when she brought him on a monthly visit. It was as though his grandmother was a sort of neutral territory where their usual domestic war was suspended for the duration. Not that he enjoyed going; Sue never deceived herself about that. But when he talked and listened to Karen he displayed positively human traits of decency and sympathy.
They reached a tall trellis that was swamped by honeysuckle. Karen ran her hand across the long red and gold trumpet flowers. “Timmy at school? Why, he must be nearly five now. How time flies by.”
“Yes. Doesn’t it just.”
Karen gave her a pleasant, expectant smile. “Are we going home now, dear? It’s late. I must get your father’s supper ready. You know what he’s like if there’s nothing for him to eat when he gets home.”
“Just a little while longer,” Sue murmured. It took a lot of discipline not to screw her face up in despair. Over the years she’d surprised herself by how strong she could be when dealing with her mother.
Karen suddenly sucked on her lower lip as her body made a quick lurch forward. It was as though she’d tripped. Sue gripped her tighter. “Oh dear,” Karen said brokenly. She looked down at her feet.
Sue followed her gaze. A catheter bag was lying on the brick pavement between her legs.
“They’re going to be so cross with me again,” Karen said. She began to wring her hands anxiously.
“Oh Jesus.” Staring at the bag with its leaking tube, Sue fought hard to keep her poise. “How long have you been using those?”
Karen smiled happily. “Using what, dear?”
THE DIRECTOR’S OFFICE was on Mulligan Hall’s second floor, looking out over the courtyard at the front. So he doesn’t have to see the residents shuffling around the lawns, Sue thought grimly. She still hadn’t quite recovered from the shock in the garden. A couple of staff had come running when she shouted for help. Her mother was crying softly as they led her back inside. Worst of all, one of the caretakers had said: “It’s best you don’t come with us. It always takes a while to get her settled again after these episodes.”
Sue had stood numbly on the path watching her utterly bewildered mother being urged inside. Then the director’s PA had come out and walked with her up to the office.
Director Fletcher himself sat behind a wide metal desk devoid of any clutter. A single screen had rolled up out of a narrow recess, scrolling a plain text file, which he kept glancing at. To look at, he was in his midfifties, though with genoprotein treatments Sue could never quite place people’s age. That is if he was using them. He certainly wasn’t taking any of the dodgy fatrippers that were on the market; he was a large man straining the fabric of his dark gray suit and embroidered waistcoat. He still used old fashioned gold-rimmed glasses, presumably as a badge of authority. His faintly jovial air always put her in mind of some old university don.
“I do apologize once again for any distress the incident may have caused you, Mrs. Baker,” Fletcher said as soon as his assistant had left.
“It’s all right,” she said wearily. “I suppose I should have expected something like this. I still should have been told, though.”
“The lapse is entirely ours. I have been delaying this meeting for several weeks until your husband was, uh, out. This must be a very stressful time for you.”
“It’s been interesting,” Sue admitted.
“Then I’m afraid I must add to that interest. After consulting with our doctors, I have no alternative but to tell you that regrettably your mother’s condition is no longer one that Mulligan Hall can support.”
“What do you mean?”
“We are primarily a residential care home for people who need a modest degree of assistance to maintain a reasonable quality of life. Unfortunately, your mother no longer falls into that category.”
“This place is the best care facility available, that’s what you always tell me.”
“For people who remain cognizant, yes. But as we know, your mother’s condition is an unusual one. Our resident doctors have performed a really remarkable job keeping her deterioration at bay for so long. We have to accept the simple fact, Mrs. Baker, that the human body decays no matter what we do.”
“Except for Jeff,” Sue whispered.
“Quite,” the director said. “As you say, decay underwent a phenomenal reversal in your husband’s case. However, until that particular treatment is available to the rest of us, we are subject to an entropy which can only be slowed for a while by today’s genoprotein treatments. And in the case of your mother, those treatments have reached their limit.”
“What about new ones, different ones? There are thousands of genoproteins available. Money isn’t a problem.”
“Mrs. Baker, we have complete access to the latest therapies. On occasion we even help some biomedical companies with clinical trials. But even if such things were appropriate in this case, there is nothing more we can do for your mother here. I have to say very clearly to you that the overall prognosis is not good.”
“What then?” she snapped. “What is this bloody prognosis of yours? Is she going to die, is that it? Is that what you’re saying?” She hated how angry and desperate she sounded, as if confronting him would make all this not so. It made her seem pathetic.
“People suffering from Alzheimer’s can live for a considerable time. Providing they have the correct care. Mulligan Hall does not have those kind of facilities. I’m sorry.”
“You’re kicking her out? Just like that?”
“Not at all. But you will have to make alternative arrangements over the next few weeks. Your mother is getting to the stage where she requires constant nursing supervision. We’re simply not set up for a service that intense.”
“Well, where is?”
“I can provide a list of medical centers that we recommend. Several of them are local; one is even run by our parent company. I took the liberty of checking. There are places available.”
“Oh God.” Sue put her head in her hands. I will not cry. “How much is all this going to cost?”
“The financial requirement involved is inevitably higher than the level you’re accustomed to here at the Hall. Is that a problem?” He sounded mildly surprised.
“Let me talk this over with my husband. We’ll be in touch in a few days.”
“Of course.”
And what the hell was Jeff going to say about this?
IT HAD BEEN YEARS since Jeff had ventured into a pub. A long time ago, before he lived in Empingham, his local kept his own pewter tankard behind the bar for him. Those were the days when he enthused about real ale and had regular sessions with his friends and colleagues of a Friday night. Twenty years ago now. Probably even longer if he was honest.
He’d arranged to meet Alan and James in Stamford for a boys’ night out, starting off at the Vaults on Broad Street. The whole event was a straight fix of nostalgia, although he wasn’t sure for whose benefit. A couple of his Europol team went into the Vaults first for a quick check and gave him the okay. When he walked in, James and Alan were waiting with expressions of mild derision.
“Your babysitting squad has approved then, have they?” James grunted.
“Please,” Jeff said. “If I get shot, it’s your tax money that’s been wasted. What are you drinking?”
James looked at his pint pot on the table, still three quarters full. “Bateman’s, please.”
“Same here,” Alan said.
Jeff went up to the bar to collect the order. Several people around the lounge were staring at him. There was an outbreak of heated whispering across the room. The barmaid was very attentive, a blonde girl who couldn’t have been twenty. When she smiled at him he tried to avoid looking at the zits on her cheeks.
James had almost finished his first pint by the time Jeff got back to the table. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
“What are you drinking?” Alan asked.
“Lager shandy,” Jeff confessed. “I’ve still got to be a bit careful healthwise.” A polite lie. He simply didn’t want to end up like…well, James, basically. He’d been down that road once before, thank you very much. Just one last pint and a stop at the all-night burger bar; week after week, year after year. When you were young it didn’t matter, your body could handle it. Cumulative effects were so small as to be unnoticeable. It was only in later life you regretted and cursed all those binges and excesses. This time around he was determined to be more careful, to take care of himself. Nicole had certainly complimented him on the shape he was in. It made him rea
lize he was more frightened by aging now than he ever had been before.
“I hear you might be coming on board with us,” James said.
“On board?”
“Nicole gave me a full report of what happened.”
Superb self-control prevented Jeff from choking on his beer. “Oh, that.”
Alan laughed and nudged James. “See how a young girl can turn his head. He never signed on when you were running the company.”
Jeff gave them a weak smile. There was absolutely no way he was going to be able to tell James about this. It didn’t matter that Nicole had made all the moves; sleeping with a friend’s granddaughter had to be pretty close to the top of all-time Bad Things. “She made a good case for you to overhaul my finances. They need looking at properly.” He’d even fixed up a repeat meeting at the hotel for next week.
“Certainly bloody do,” James grunted. “Brussels keeps changing the rules. Bastards. You’ve got to stay five steps ahead of them or they’ll scoop up your entire salary. We’ve heard they’re going to increase Social Insurance to eighteen percent of overall income in a couple of years’ time. That’s on top of income tax. And you’ve got to be top rated on that, Jeff.”
“It’s a pretty frightening figure, yeah.”
“Two years,” Alan mused. “That puts it conveniently after the presidential elections.”
“Doesn’t matter, nobody votes for the president anyway. Last time it was barely a forty percent turnout, and most of them were from Luxembourg.”
“None of the candidates would ever mention higher taxes anyway, not even if they go negative,” James said. “That way they all benefit from deniability. Just like Area fifty-one in Independence Day.”
“That was culpable deniability. Randy Quaid told the president about it.”
“Yeah, Quaid was playing Jeff Goldblum’s dad.”