Market Forces

by Richard K. Morgan

  ‘So are you handling the NAME account for Shorn these days?’

  It was Liz Linshaw, suddenly propped against the worktop opposite, a spliff cocked in one upheld hand beside her face, spare arm folded across her body to support the other elbow. He looked across at her and felt her presence turn on a tiny tap in his guts.

  He’d seen her a couple of times already, once in passing on the stairs up to the bathroom, once across the cleared space and dancers in the lounge where she was weaving back and forth alone to the junk salsa-beat. She was decked out in classic designer oil-stained Mao jeans, a deep red T-shirt and a black silk jacket. Her riotous blonde hair was gathered up and pinned at one side with an artful lack of care, left elsewhere to tumble down past her shoulder and partly mask that side of her face. There was a tigerish vitality in it all, he saw now, an animation that took the constructed charms of Patricia’s kind and made them plastic and spray.

  Now she tilted the hair away from her eyes and grinned at him.

  He found himself grinning back. ‘You know I can’t answer that, Liz.’

  ‘Just you sounded so informed.’

  ‘I’m informed about a lot of things. Let’s talk about Mars.’

  It was that season’s Dex and Seth ultra-cool quote, immortalised in a series of sketches featuring Seth’s fawning, craven TV interviewer and Dex’s high-powered American corporate shark. Whenever the interview steered into politically iffy waters, Dex started to make angry American noises that didn’t actually contain any words and Seth’s interviewer invariably reacted by cringing and suggesting let’s talk about Mars.

  With that line, you knew that across Europe, hundreds of thousands of watchers were reeling away from their illegally tuned screens, clutching their sides and weeping with laughter. Apart from being as far removed as you could humanly get from current affairs on Earth, news from Mars was famously dull. After nearly two decades of manned missions and exploration, the rotating teams of scientists were doing nothing anyone cared remotely about. Sure, people might be able to live out there in a century. Big fucking deal. Meanwhile, here are some more red rocks. More Red Rocks was another big Dex and Seth number, the two comedians done up in pressure suits and geeky masks, bouncing in faked low g and singing the lyrics to tunes ripped off from junk-salsa giants like Javi Reyes and Inez Zequina.

  ‘Let’s not talk about Mars,’ said Liz Linshaw firmly, and everyone in the kitchen broke up with laughter. Amidst it, she leaned across the narrow space between them, and offered the spliff to Chris.

  Her eyes, he suddenly noticed, were grey-green.

  The dealer sniffed the air with professional interest. ‘That the new Moroccan stuff?’ he wanted to know. ‘Hammersmith Hammer?’

  Liz spared him a glance. ‘No. Thai direct.’

  ‘Anyone I know?’

  ‘I seriously doubt it.’

  Chris drew it down, coughed a little. Let it up again almost immediately. He wasn’t a big fan of the stuff. Aside from a couple of parties at Mel’s place with Carla, he hadn’t smoked in years.

  Liz Linshaw was watching him.

  ‘Very nice,’ he wheezed, and tried to hand the spliff back. She pushed it away, and used the motion to lean in close. Close enough that tendrils of her hair brushed his face.

  ‘I’d really like to talk to you somewhere,’ she said.

  ‘Fair enough.’ He found a stupid grin crawling onto his mouth and twitched it away. ‘Garden?’

  ‘I’ll meet you out there.’ She withdrew, nodded casually at James and the powder man, and wandered out of the kitchen, leaving Chris holding the spliff. Patricia watched her go with enough venom in her gaze to poison a city water supply.

  ‘Who is that woman?’ she asked.

  ‘Friend,’ said Chris, and drifted off in Liz Linshaw’s wake.

  Either Troy’s garden was larger than he’d expected or the Thai grass was already beginning to kick in. It was full dark by now, but Troy had thoughtfully provided half a dozen garden torches, driven at intervals into the long tongue of well-kept lawn. The garden was bordered by a mix of trees and shrubs, amidst which the dwarf palms seemed to be doing the best, and at the far end a gnarled oak tree raised crooked limbs at the sky. From one lower branch someone had strung a simple wooden swing on blue plastic ropes that picked up the flickering light of the nearest torches and glowed. Liz Linshaw was seated there, one long leg drawn up to wedge her body back against one of the ropes, the other on the ground, idly stirring the swing in tiny arcs. There was a fresh spliff burning in her hand.

  Chris hung from the moment, and felt something happen to him. It wasn’t just the fact that he knew she was waiting for him. There was something in the air, something that caught in the luminous blue twistings of the swing ropes, in the casual elegance of the way she had folded her body like an origami sketch of sexual appeal. The lawn was a carpet laid out under his feet, and the other people in the garden - he only registered them now - seemed to turn in unison and approve his passage towards the tree.

  He grimaced and threw away the spliff. Made his way warily to her.

  ‘Well,’ she said.

  ‘You wanted to talk to me.’ It came out rougher than he’d intended.

  ‘Yes.’ She smiled up at him. ‘I’ve wanted to talk with you since the Tebbit Centre. Since the first time we met, in fact.’

  It felt as if the ground beneath his feet had gone suddenly soggy and unsupportive.

  ‘Why is that?’

  She lifted a hand. ‘Why do you think?’

  ‘Uh, Liz, to be honest, I thought you and Mike—‘

  ‘Oh.’ The crooked smile was back. She smoked some more and he struggled with his doped senses. ‘He told you about that. Well, Chris, how can I put this? Mike Bryant and I are not some kind of exclusive event.’

  The ground was, apparently, gone now.

  ‘In fact,’ she said very softly, ‘there’s no reason why I can’t ask you for what Mike’s been giving me. Is there?’

  He stared at her. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Interviews,’ she said, and laughed. ‘Your life so far, Chris. My publishers are promising me a half-million advance, if I can come up with another book like The New Asphalt Warriors. It’s a guaranteed bestseller. And with the Nakamura thing, Cambodia and the rest of it, you’re the man of the moment. Ideal focus.’

  The ground came up and hit him in the heels, so hard he almost stumbled.

  ‘Oh.’ He looked away from the level grey-green gaze. ‘Right.’

  She was still grinning. He could hear it in her voice. ‘Why, what did you think I was talking about?’

  ‘No, I. Yeah. Fine, that, that’s good.’

  She pushed with her foot and cranked the swing back a little, then let go. The edge of the wooden seat hit him across the front of the thighs. Her weight swung with it, pressed against him.

  ‘Was there something else you wanted, Chris?’

  Sprawled, airbrushed bodies on the exercise bench, liquid moans

  Carla, the house, the stagnant anger through empty rooms

  You’re a good guy, Chris. Bryant, lolling semi-conscious on the hotel bed

  That’s you. You’re a. Fucking good guy.

  It fell through his head like an avalanche, images crushing each other.

  Liz Linshaw’s cleavage loaded into an open-necked blouse

  Carla, soaping him in the shower, hands still gritty with the work on the Saab

  Mitsue Jones, trapped in the wreck of her Mitsubishi, struggling

  what we value here at Shorn is resolution

  you ‘re a fucking good guy

  was there something else you wanted

  ‘Chris!’

  It was Bryant. Chris took a sudden step back from Liz Linshaw and the swing. He saw her face, and the way it changed. Then he was facing Mike as he strode up the garden towards them.

  ‘Been looking for you everywhere, man. Hi, Liz.’ The conjunction appeared to strike him for the first time. His eyes narrowed.
‘What are you guys doing out here?’

  ‘Talking,’ said Liz, unruffled.

  Chris scrambled for cover. ‘Book deal.’ He made a gesture at Liz that felt like a warding off. ‘She says.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Bryant gave Liz an unfriendly look. ‘Well, my advice is don’t tell her anything too realistic. You wouldn’t want to get labelled an animal.’

  Liz, smiling to herself, turning away, unfolding herself from the swing. Chris shut it out and focused on Bryant.

  ‘So what’s happening?

  ‘Ah, no big deal. Troy needs a favour. Liz, you want to give us a little privacy?’

  ‘Already leaving, boys. Already leaving.’

  They both watched her walk back down the garden and into the house. Mike turned and mimed a pistol at Chris’s face. He wasn’t smiling.

  ‘Hope you know what you’re doing here, Chris.’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Mike. I’m married. She just wants another half-million advance from her publishers.’

  ‘I wouldn’t count on that being the whole story.’

  ‘Mike, I am married.’

  ‘Yeah, me too.’ Bryant rubbed at his face. ‘Not like you, though, huh?’

  ‘You said that, not me.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Bryant smiled sadly and slung an arm across the other man’s shoulders. ‘You’re a good guy, Chris. You’re a good fucking guy.’

  Chris stowed the unease slithering through him.

  ‘So. What’s the deal with Troy?’

  It was all in the zones.

  Mike said he’d drive, though Chris wasn’t convinced he was in any way the more sober or straight of the two of them. They went out to the car together with Troy, who for the first time since Chris had known him seemed angry and uncomfortable.

  ‘I’d come with you, Mike ...’

  ‘I know you would, man. But you can’t.’ Mike held up his corporate plastic. ‘We’re the only ones can do this for you. You know that.’

  The Jamaican shook his head. ‘I owe you for this. Big time.’

  ‘You don’t owe me shit, Troy. Remember Camberwell?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Right, well as far as I’m concerned, I’m still paying off the interest, ‘kay? Now give Chris the camera.’

  Troy Morris swallowed and handed over the shoulder set. His features were knotted up with rage and frustration. Chris remembered him at the Falkland, the sawn-off shotgun propped against his shoulder as he left laughing, the sense of street competence that radiated off the man. It was a brutal transition to the Troy he saw before him now. Chris felt a jagged pang of sympathy. He knew the feeling of sudden impotence from his own youth, knew how it could cook your brains in your head, chew up your insides until you couldn’t sleep.

  He got in the car. Stowed the shoulder set in the back seat.

  ‘Be back before you know it,’ said Mike as he swung himself in the driver’s side. The engine rumbled awake. Gears engaged and the BMW swept out into the street.

  ‘What was that about Camberwell?’ Chris asked, as they came up on the checkpoint lights.

  ‘Yeah, first time I met Troy. About ten years ago, back before he had this place. I was out in the zones, hitting the whiff pretty hard, went home with the wrong woman.’

  ‘For a change,’ said Chris sourly.

  Mike chuckled. ‘Yeah, guess you never can get all the spots off the tiger, huh?’

  ‘Leopard.’

  ‘What?’ They pulled in beside the checkpoint. A nervous-looking kid in guard uniform came out of the cabin and glanced into the car. He seemed unsure of himself. Mike leaned out and handed over his plastic.

  ‘Leopard,’ said Chris, while they were waiting. ‘Tigers used to have stripes, not spots. Leopards were the spotted ones.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yeah, saw it on some nature digest a while back. They used to be able to climb trees, just like a real cat.’

  ‘What, tigers?’

  ‘Leopards.’

  The young guard finally got his hipswipe unit to work and Mike’s card chimed through. The barrier rose and they were waved across.

  ‘I swear these guys get younger every time we do the zones,’ said Chris. ‘I mean, is it really a good idea to give automatic weapons to teenagers like that?’

  ‘Why not? They do it in the army.’

  They hit their first pothole. Mike took a left. Around them, the housing grew increasingly haggard.

  ‘So yeah, Camberwell. This was before I met Suki. I was pretty wild back then. Pretty stupid. Used to get through a can and a half of Durex a month, easily. And the drugs, ah, you know how it is when you’ve got money. Anyway, this tart wasn’t really a tart, or maybe she was a tart and she changed her mind, I don’t know. End result, there were these three guys waiting outside her apartment. They threw me down a flight of stairs and started dancing on my head. Troy was living in the apartment downstairs, he heard the noise, came out and chased them off.’

  ‘All three of them?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right. He’s pretty fucking hard, Troy is. Or could be he faced them down. Don’t know, I was out by then, semi-conscious. But, yeah, maybe he just talked them out of it. See, they were black, I was white, Troy was black. That maybe had something to do with it. Or maybe not. Anyway, the guy saved me getting hospitalised for certain, maybe saved me from a wheelchair. I owe him forever, and then some.’

  They drove in silence the rest of the way, parked outside a nondescript little row of three-storey houses and sat for a moment. Mike hauled the camera out of the back seat and dumped it in Chris’s lap.

  ‘Okay, now just follow my lead. Back me up.’

  They got out of the car, went through an ungated garden gateway and up a short, decaying concrete path. The door was cheap beige impact plastic, scarred and ugly. A Sony securicam lens and speaker grille gleamed incongruously from the chest-high panel in which it had been set. The installation looked professional. Mike touched the edge of the panel with one finger.

  ‘See. Going up in the world. Just like the man said.’

  Chris shook his head and whispered. ‘I can’t believe—‘

  ‘Believe it.’ Mike hit the doorbell. ‘Now turn that thing on.’

  Chris found the on-off in the camera’s grip. A cone of hard light leapt out of the front end and splashed on the scarred plastic of the front door. He wondered if this was going to play. Most state-of-the-art shoulder sets these days would shoot the whole range from infra-red to ultraviolet with no external lighting at all.

  Movement behind the door. He shouldered the set and tried to look like a cameraman.

  ‘You know what fucking time it is?’ said a female voice from the speaker grille. ‘This had better be fucking important.’

  Mike pitched his voice media bouncy. ‘Ah, Mrs Dixon? This is Gavin Wallace from Powerful People. Is your husband home?’

  A silence. Chris imagined her peering into the securicam screen at the two expensively-dressed men on her doorstep. The voice came, tinged with suspicion.

  ‘You from TV?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Dixon, that’s what I said. Your husband has been selected from—‘

  A second voice, male and further from the speaker pick-up. The woman’s voice faded as she turned away from the door.

  ‘Griff, it’s the TV. Powerful People.’

  Another pause, laced with muffled voices. Someone had a hand over the pick-up. Mike looked at Chris, shrugged and put on the media voice again.

  ‘Mr Dixon, if you’re there. We don’t have a lot of time. The helicopter has already left Blackfriars, and we need to get through the preliminaries before it arrives. We’re on a very tight schedule.’

  It was the right chord. Half the draw of Powerful People derived from the breakneck pace the programme sustained from the moment the names came out of the studio computer. There was much aerial footage, cityscapes tilting away beneath the swift-flying pick-up copters, locator teams sprinting through the zones in search of the nigh
t’s contestants—

  The door cracked open the width of a heavy-duty security chain. A lean, pale face appeared in the gap, blinking in the light from the shoulder set. There was a thin pink streak of artiflesh smeared over a cut on one temple.

  ‘Mr Dixon. Good.’ Mike leaned in, beaming. ‘Gavin Wallace. Powerful People. Pleased to. Oh. That looks nasty, that cut. Make-up’ll need to see that. In fact, I hate to say this but in all conscience—‘

  It was a stroke of genius. Powerful People’s selection teams had been known to pass over a candidate for as little as recent dental surgery. The door hinged in, the chain came off. Griff Dixon stood before them in all his midnight glory.

  ‘It’s just a scratch,’ he said. ‘Honest. I’ll be fine. I’m fighting fit.’

  It was an appropriate expression, Chris thought. Dixon was stripped to the waist, taut-muscled torso rising from a pair of jeans with real stains on them. His hair was a razored single centimetre all over, there were heavy black boots on his feet and in his hand was a crumpled-up white T-shirt that Chris somehow knew he had just tugged off.

  ‘Well,’ said Mike richly. ‘If you’re quite sure you—‘

  ‘I’m fine, I’m fine. Look, you want to come in, right.’

  ‘Well, alright.’ Mike made a show of wiping his shoes on the doorstep and walked into the threadbare hall, smiling a big TV smile. ‘Hello, Mrs Dixon.’

  A thin, worn-looking woman about Carla’s age stood behind Dixon’s sculpted musculature, one thin-boned hand resting on his shoulder. She squinted into the camera light and brushed vaguely at her shoulder-length brown hair.

  ‘This is my colleague Christopher Mitchell. I’m sorry. Could we maybe film this in the living room?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Sure.’ Dixon’s eagerness was almost pitiful. ‘Jazz, make some tea, will you. Or would you like coffee?’

  Bryant glanced round. ‘Christopher?’

  ‘Uhh, yeah.’ Chris fumbled the question. ‘Coffee. White, no sugar.’

  ‘And black for me,’ said Mike. ‘One sugar, please. Thank you.’

  The woman disappeared up the hall, while Dixon let them pass and closed the door behind them. In his excitement, he forgot the chain. They went left into a small living room dominated by a huge Audi entertainment deck set against one wall. The system didn’t look any older than the securicam in the door.