Peter Hamilton - The Mandel Files

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 interspaced with antique rock-concert posters, mostly from Leicester’s De Monfort 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.