Megacity: Operation Galton Book 3 Read online

  I knew that cologne. I knew the feel of that hand. It burned my skin, right through the material of my sexy gold dress—no, I wasn't going to hide myself away and make myself look unattractive, because he wasn't that important. I refused to let that bloody pervert affect my life. I wasn't scared of him.

  I should have been.

  I slapped his hand away, and told him to fuck off. If I'd thought that would stop him, I was wrong—the way he looked at me told me he saw me as a challenge. An exciting challenge.

  My head buzzed with champagne, anger and panic, and I pushed through the throng out into the hall. I needed some chemical euphoria to straighten me out; I had a few blitz gel capsules in a little bag, stuffed into my bra.

  I sought out the library, down the hall, and closed the door behind me. Oh, the relief. The room was peaceful, cool, dark; the curtains were open, the room lit up only by the moon. I stood by the French windows for a moment, looking out at the night. Christmas lights on the trees made the garden look like fairyland. I wanted to drift off on a cloud, be somewhere else. Somewhere I'd be free of all this Bettencourt crap. Find my old buddy Radar, and take him with me.

  But I couldn't, and right now my only escape was in capsule form.

  I touched 'desk only' on the light pad, and took out my blitz.

  I didn't hear the door open and shut behind me.

  Didn't know he was in the room until I'd swallowed one, and felt a hand on my arse.

  "You got one of those for me?"

  I was just about to whip round and kick him where it hurt, when he stepped back, hands raised. "Truce, huh? Come on, darling, you've been avoiding me for months. You going to let me in on the party?"

  I chucked the bag onto the desk and took a step back. "Help yourself."

  He dipped into the little bag and took one, staring at me all the time (I think it was meant to be intense), then moved towards me, putting a hand on my waist. "Are you going to stop kidding around now?"

  I cringed at his touch, but I stayed calm. Didn't want him to think he had any effect on me at all. "I'm not."

  "Come on. You know what I mean."

  And then he slid his hands up my bare arms. I froze. Stiff as a statue.

  "Sweetheart, there's nothing to worry about." He bent his head and kissed my neck. "I'd never hurt you. I'm crazy about you."

  My skin was crawling so badly it was practically out of the door, and I couldn't stand it a moment longer. With all my might, I shoved him away.

  "Get your fucking hands off me!" And all of a sudden I didn't feel in control at all. I hugged myself, retreating into the darkness, but he came closer, placing one of his foul mitts on my arm.

  "Tara, honey—I'm sorry if I've come on too strong but I can't get you out of my head. You're so beautiful—and you mustn't worry about Marilee, we've been an 'in name only' sort of marriage for years. She does her thing, I do mine. Just give me a chance." He grabbed me round the waist, pulling me to him. "We can take it slow, but don't shut me out, please. If it goes the way I'd like it to, hell, I'm willing to go public. I can take the scandal if you can."

  "Please stop," I whispered, scared that if I spoke any louder I might start crying, and I wouldn't cry in front of him, I wouldn't—but then he pulled me even closer, and what I could feel against my stomach revolted me so much that I didn't even think, I just brought up my leg between his and kneed him in the nuts. Not as hard as I'd have liked, but it had the desired effect. He fell back, with a moan of pain.

  "Jesus—what the—"

  "You keep away from me!" I snarled, and tried to push past him, but he recovered and caught my wrist, pulling me to him, grabbing me by the back of my neck and forcing me to face him.

  "What are you playing at? I saw the way you were looking at me with your lips around that bottle—like I didn't know what that meant."

  He jammed his mouth onto mine, and I wanted to be sick. I kept my mouth firmly shut; he let me go, and laughed.

  "Okay, then. Play your games. It's fun. I like it. But don't take it too far, huh?"

  I wrenched myself away from him, and flew out of the room into the brightly lit corridor then across to the main party room, where I saw Zia sitting on a chaise longue, eating cake with a little dessert fork.

  Our eyes met, and I knew she knew.

  I didn't tell Marilee; aside from anything else, I was fond of her and didn't want to upset her, and I was scared of what might happen if I did say anything. Zia was another matter. I tried to discuss it with her before she went back to MC9, but she just looked away and said, "I can't talk about this, I'm sorry."

  Maybe I'd got it wrong. Maybe she thought I was lying, making trouble.

  Life carried on like nothing had happened. At the dinner table, and at Sunday breakfast, Clinton acted like he was no more than my amiable guardian, and the rest of the time I went out a lot. Avoided all of them as much as I could.

  I thought Clinton had given up on me, probably found himself a new plaything somewhere. I began to relax, thinking it was all over, but I refused to go on holiday with them that summer because I didn't want Clinton ogling me in a bikini, and no way was I staying covered up on Icaria, it was too damned hot. At home, if he was around, I wore a sarong tied halter-style round my neck, totally loose and shapeless, when I sat round the pool.

  They wouldn't let me stay in the house on my own for a fortnight, so I went to stay with Tallulah and her family. Tallulah kept saying I was acting weird. I knew I was, because I was keeping this huge secret from her; I felt ashamed, dirty, and I wasn't one hundred per cent sure that she wouldn't tell other people. Like, pretending to be concerned but really for the gossip factor.

  A week after we got back, a Saturday afternoon in late August, Marilee was out doing a charity clothes sale in aid of Hope Villages, and Clinton was playing golf, so I considered it safe to lie out in a bikini. When Clinton played golf, he was always out until early evening.

  Except that day, when he came home early.

  I didn't even know he was back until a shadow blocked the sun; I was lying on a lounger with my eyes closed.

  "Hello, gorgeous," he said. "Fancy a skinny dip?"

  I sat bolt upright, grabbed my towel and, throwing him a filthy look, stormed into the little chalet where I'd left my clothes.

  Big mistake.

  I flipped the latch over but, just as I was pulling my shorts on, light flooded in. I turned; the door was open, and there he was, his tall frame in silhouette, the sun behind him.

  "Good choice of venue," he whispered. "Nice and private."

  And he walked towards me, pulling off his t-shirt.

  "Get the fuck away from me," I hissed, backing into the corner.

  "Shh, now," he said, "let's stop pretending, shall we?"

  "I'm not pretending!" I could smell alcohol on his breath mixed with the subtle, lemony cologne he wore in the summer; he seemed to fill the room. "If you don't leave me alone, I really will tell Marilee! And my teachers—I'll tell everyone!"

  He was so close to me now; he pulled the shoestring strap of my bikini off my shoulder and drew his finger down my chest, between my tits. "No, you won't. Because that would spoil our fun, wouldn't it? We can have a lot of fun, and the more we have, the better off you'll be." He wrapped his fingers around my left wrist and held it to the wall. "Think about it. I can make your life awesome—or not very awesome at all."

  My right hand was still free and I pushed him, but it was no good; I tried to knee him in the nuts again but he moved out of the way so I couldn't—and then he took my right hand, and held that up against the wall, too, smiling like this was all fucking foreplay. I looked from side to side, trying to see a way out, but there wasn't one. Unless—

  Much though it revolted me to do so, I relaxed and gave him a sexy smile. The fucking slug thought he'd won, that I wanted him after all, and he took my right hand and guided it down to his groin.

  What I did next revolted me even more, but it had to be done. I made my h
and into a claw and dug my long fingernails into his dick, as hard as I possibly could. At least my nails were false; no part of me touched it. He yelped, lost hold of me, and fell back onto the bench, and then I ran into the house, up the stairs and into my room, locking the door behind me.

  I sat on the bed, gripping the sides, shaking, my heart thundering.

  I was trapped. I couldn't stay here—but where could I go? Into the wasteland, like Susu? I didn't know how to get there; it was only the other side of the megacity perimeter, but access was not allowed, and my com would tell them where I was in an instant.

  Unless I left it behind.

  No. I couldn't. It was my connection to everything, my entire life.

  I started to cry, tears of fear and panic—and then the door opened and there he was.

  He held up his thumb. "The guy gave me access as soon as you had it installed. Aside from bathrooms, we don't allow locked doors in this house." He was smiling. He was actually fucking smiling. "I'm beginning to think you aren't playing games."

  I wiped my hand across my eyes. "Yeah? Getting the picture now, are you?"

  He walked towards me and I tensed, all over, waiting for him to touch me, but he didn't. "I'm gutted. I misread the signals. Men, right?"

  I looked up, and he was looking at me like normal again, like my kind guardian, not the lecherous beast in the chalet.

  "But you appreciate everything I've done for you?" His voice was soft, non-threatening.

  "Of course I do."

  "Sometimes I feel like you don't."

  "I do appreciate it—you—you and Marilee—"

  "Nuh-uh. Just me. My money, my position. Not Marilee's. She just chose you. The sweet kid who's grown into a beautiful woman, but it's not just that. You're bright, fiery, unpredictable—you're the sort of woman who drives me insane."

  I tensed. He stepped closer. I tensed some more.

  "Don't you like me just a little bit?"

  No, you make my flesh creep, you vile piece of shit.

  "I'm grateful to you—"

  "You could show me, you know." He sat next to me, and ran his hand up my thigh. "We can take it slow."

  The feel of his skin touching mine was more than I could take.

  "Get—the—fuck—off—me." I shoved my nails into his wrist, hard, as hard as I possibly could, digging them right in, and he whipped his hand away—I'd actually drawn blood.

  The smile fell from his face. "You little bitch."

  I stood, backing away from the bed. "You keep away from me. Me, and Zia—"

  That made him laugh. "Zia—hell, no!" He shook his head, nursing his hand. "What a mess."

  "Zia's lovely, so fuck you."

  "Sure she is, babe, sure she is. Said with all the conviction of the stunner who knows her friend is no competition. I don't want her, I want you."

  "I don't care what you want—you leave me alone, or I'm telling my teachers."

  He stood. "Yeah? And who will they believe? Clinton Bettencourt, VP of Nutricorp UK, or some freeloading tearaway he rescued from a Hope Village?"

  "I'll make them listen! I'll tell everyone—I'll go to Caleb and Freya."

  That made him laugh; he held up his hands and took a step back, grinning. "Whoa. Don't get excited."

  "You just watch me!"

  He laughed again. "Well, it'd be quite interesting, that's for sure."

  I reached behind me to my dressing table, trying to find something I could use as a weapon if necessary. "You're disgusting—and I bet Susu thought so too. If you ever touch me again, you'll wish you hadn't."

  "Is that a threat?" Any hint of amusement disappeared from his face. "That's your final word, is it?"

  "Too fucking right it is."

  For a moment he just stared at me. Then he said, "Wrong move, sweetheart. Wrong move."

  He turned his back and strode out, and was never anything more than distantly polite to me, ever again.

  Wrong move, sweetheart.

  By the time I found out what those words meant, I had—stupidly—banished them to the back of my mind.

  I went back to school for my final year, worked hard for my HCEs, and applied for MC15 University's Visual Marketing degree course. Once they'd given me the acceptance conditions, Marilee drove me down to visit the fabulous college in its glorious setting.

  I thought Clinton had given up and moved on. I thought I was off the hook.

  I was so, so wrong.

  It was the first Sunday breakfast after Zia's return home for summer, and Jerome was there, as usual. In between shoving pineapple and mango into my mouth, I chattered away about the beauty of the Cornish coast, how fascinating the course sounded and how, for once, I couldn't wait for summer to be over.

  Clinton stopped me, mid-sentence. "Tara, d'you mind if I ask you something?"

  I hated even looking at him. "What?"

  He frowned, like he was genuinely confused. "How are you going to pay for all this? For your tuition, your lodging?"

  I didn't understand at first. I just laughed, and made a vague gesture; I looked at Marilee for help, but she had suddenly become fascinated by her fruit salad.

  "No, I mean it. Seriously. I'm interested. Going to college is expensive. How are you going to finance it?"

  Sweat broke out, all over me.

  Jerome smirked, while Clinton slapped his palm to his forehead. "Oh, I see. You assumed I would pay for it?"

  My cheeks burned.

  "Did you not think to check whether I would or not, before you started applying to these colleges?"

  Jerome shook his head, enjoying every moment. "Jesus, talk about entitled!"

  I ignored him, clenched my fists under the table, and looked Clinton right in the eye. "I've been talking about college for a year—why didn't you say anything before?"

  He shrugged. "Perhaps I was too busy running a multi-million-dollar company to listen to the prattling of a teenager."

  That made me feel even more foolish. "Okay, well, why did you let Marilee drive me down to Cornwall to look at the place?"

  He shrugged, triumph written all over his face. "When she told me about your trip I did wonder how you were going to afford it, but I didn't like to ask."

  Oh, you arsehole.

  I looked at Zia. She stared down at her lap.

  "But you paid for Zia to go. You would have paid for Jerome, if he'd wanted to—I remember you talking about it when I was first here, how you'd wanted him to do a business degree—and what about Susu? Would you have done the same for her, if she hadn't run away into the wasteland rather than live with you?"

  Clinton looked first at Marilee, then at Jerome. "Who's Susu? I don't know anyone called Susu, do you?" And he and Jerome laughed again.

  "What was it that made her leave, anyway?" I asked, and glanced at Zia. She gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head; I could see the panic on her face, as if she was saying, don't say it. You'll come off worst.

  For once, I listened.

  Clinton assumed an expression of mock bewilderment. "Sorry, beautiful, I don't know any Susu. Run away into the wasteland, you said? Perhaps you're thinking of one of those dirtballs at your Hope Village?"

  The victory was his, but I wasn't going down without a fight. "You became my legal guardian—same as you did Zia. That means you're responsible, morally and probably legally, for my education."

  "Morally and legally, eh?" Oh, he loved that. "Okay, since you asked, I'm happy to finance Zia's schooling because she's never done anything but make me proud. You, though—partying with tearaways, getting picked up by the cops, ignoring curfews—sorry, sunshine, you're eighteen now. An adult. I'll tell you what I've done, though, because I saw this coming—I've found you a job and an apartment, and paid your first couple months' rent. Now you've left high school, you're off my hands. I've done enough for you." He pulled out his com, did a bit of quick finger-work. "I've sent you the address of your new place. You move in next week; I was going to tell you later toda
y, but as the subject has come up—well, there you go. Oh, and your job starts two weeks Monday. Tech Village. Don't be late, it'll reflect badly on me."

  My com pinged and, feeling all eyes on me, I took it out and opened the information Clinton had sent.

  If I'd expected a flat in the gated community, like Jerome's, I was disappointed.

  Clinton had rented me a box in the stacks. Not even the stacks of MC5.

  In a week's time I would be living in MC12, about a hundred miles away from all my friends and everything I knew.

  Part Two

  2051 ~ 2061

  Chapter 9

  Radar

  2051 ~ 2055

  Radar was never caught for killing the young man called Nathan.

  Now and again, Sid asked him to 'deal with' someone else—usually someone who'd tried to usurp his authority.

  Transferral, incarceration and death meant that, as with all Hopes that housed the 'socially challenged', Hope 23 had a shifting population. A new arrival might have been top dog elsewhere, and might presume to achieve similar respect in their new home. But Sid ruled Hope 23. Any pretenders to the throne were offered the chance to bend the knee. If they didn't accept, all bets were off.

  Radar drank. Booze was always available in Hope 23, and it took the edge off. Made him stop thinking about the shit hand life had dealt him. About the parents who'd cared more for crack than him, about losing his beloved grandmother and Tara. The little girl who'd been better than him but had loved him just the same.

  Both of them, gone.

  He hadn't known love or real friendship since he was eleven. How sad was that?

  Sid's crew weren't friends. They were just people he hung out with in order to stay vertical. Brett, Shiner, String, Ryan, Chalky. The inner circle. Next in the Hope 23 hierarchy came the 'second tier', as Sid called it; the twenty or so in the outer circle, whose loyalty could always be called upon. After them came the grunts. The messengers, the look-outs, those who cleaned up after blood had been spilled, who sorted out the boxes that contained bottles of booze amongst the tinned fruit. Some grunts were as young as nine. Sid's fiefdom was enormous.