There is a message on my Liaison that has been bothering me, sent yesterday by Ryoko, giving me an update on Clive’s detainment in Paris. There was an attachment that I opened on my flight. I had to stifle a cry of shock at what appeared on screen. Ryoko forwarded me three photos of Clive’s second-degree burns that she’d somehow managed to acquire from the Parisian police. His face looked horrible, red raw and blistery, skin weeping fluids. He’s lost the use of his right eye. I can’t stop staring at the pictures. Have to fight back tears. Seeing such beauty reduced to wreckage breaks my heart. Clive didn’t deserve this.
The vomiting is bothering me too, these semi-regular rejections from the pit of my stomach. I was sick once on the flight over, chucked again before I went to sleep. Wanted to throw up this morning while taking a mist, but managed to hold it back. No nausea or gut pain. No food poisoning or flu. If anything it feels like the worst kind of nervousness, a case of the butterflies turned into locusts. At the hotel I managed to hold down my continental breakfast for twenty minutes before it ended up splattered in the sink. Only in the last half-hour have I started to get my appetite back. Looking at the pub menu, I notice that none of the meat dishes denote their source. This means all the meat is lab-grown. I’ve eaten the stuff countless times before, but now the thought of it makes me uncomfortable.
Chelsea versus Arsenal plays on every oversized flat-screen in the pub. Seems like an important match judging by the clientele’s reaction to the game. I try to watch, but I can’t get into it. I’m too distracted by anything and everything and nothing at the same time. All I want to do is get drunk, but for some reason I can’t even get a buzz on. I hammer back my pint and order another. Chelsea scores a goal and the place goes nuts. Two minutes later Arsenal pulls one back and shuts everyone up. A minute later I’m not even watching any more. My Liaison provides me with the NYC news instead.
A local politician caught with his hand up his secretary’s skirt is the top story of the day. The violent spree of cab robberies I’d heard about earlier has escalated too, with two more drivers found shot to death in their vehicles, riddled with armour-piercing rounds that went straight through their bullet-proof partitions. Two more Manhattan women are reported missing. The first one is Annabel Colette, a blonde 22-year-old rich kid from the Upper East Side. The picture they show of her, relaxing on a yacht with a glass of champagne and a snobbish smile, screams spoiled brat to me. Judging by what I see around her neck and on her fingers, the girl has expensive taste in jewellery. Footage of her father, some Wall Street fat-cat in a suit with his arm around a sad, but stoic, blonde trophy-wife, tearfully pleads for her safe return. Something tells me the girl would put up a hell of a fight. Whoever is holding her has their hands full, I’m sure.
The second one’s name is Clarice Patton, age twenty-three, an aspiring actress and model. The photo is of a sultry blue-eyed brunette with a mischievous grin. It seems to me like she has more than a touch of the bad girl in her. I figure she might have snuck off to LA all starry-eyed to party it up and get discovered. I imagine her taking one for the dream team while friends and family worry back home. I can picture her with panties round her ankles on a casting couch, a strong hand clutching her throat in an aggressive act of erotic asphyxiation as she whimpers and wheezes for the chance at a role. I picture this so clearly, like I’m experiencing it from both first-person and third-person perspectives, as if I’m somehow standing in a corner watching myself go gonzo on this poor girl.
Although no ransom demands have been made, cops aren’t coy about trying to tie both women’s disappearances into Occupy Central Park. At a press conference a police captain states that he suspects Integris may be involved in these recent Manhattan snatchings. He seems damn sure of himself, the contempt in his voice unmistakable when referencing to the group. The faction’s long list of alleged crimes includes kidnapping, and the NYPD claim they are on top of the situation. The smug smile I feel taking over my face can’t be helped. Our United States … just like Mexico, just like Brazil, just like Columbia or fucking Venezuela now. I called it days ago, knew the lower classes were getting desperate enough to hijack the family members of our society’s elite. North America, South America? Ghettos or favelas? Shit, there’s no difference now. We’re just like every corrupt, poor, overpopulated country we ever looked down on. Our missing Manhattan girls are just the newest promissory notes in one of the world’s oldest and most popular crimes.
After the anchor reports an eleven-car pile-up on the Brooklyn Bridge, he releases the identity of a body found in the meat-packing district: Dennis Delane, the missing dude from a couple days ago. Police are ruling his death a homicide. Beaten beyond recognition is what the anchor says. When Delane’s photograph takes over the screen, I hitch in my breath.
Seen that guy before, I think. I know him.
You wouldn’t forget him easily, with his frizzy red hair, green eyes and thin face. Looks like a bit of a creep to me. No matter how hard I try, I can’t place him. He seems like a threat to me somehow, a person of interest who could make my life difficult. Seconds later Delane’s image is gone. Live footage follows, showing a decrepit alleyway, police-taped and crawling with cops, blue tarp covering the corpse that peeks out from behind a row of garbage cans. I’m no detective, but I’d say his body was dumped.
Thrown away like trash.
As I stare at my pint, the thought eats at me. Another goal is scored and the pub erupts into applause. A woman’s shriek rises above the shouts of men. It is one of excitement, but its pitch and duration trigger something chilling in my head. I’ve heard this shriek before, I think. I turn to the bar, looking for the screamer. She’s standing by the draught taps, both arms stretched over her head, squealing with delight as she looks at the screen.
The vision comes in a flash, a woman’s bare arms stretched up over her head. I remember turning to look into a large lens, watching something as it watches me. A red light glows on top of it. For the first time I can retain the information and I’m instantly panicked by it.
Seconds later I’m dialling Tweek in New York. I don’t expect him to answer, but thankfully he picks up after the second ring. His voice sounds unimpressed.
‘I assume you’re calling me about another problem, Rhodes?’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘You Husks tend not to call me for any other reason.’
‘Sorry, Tweek,’ I say. ‘But my head is getting worse.’
‘How bad?’
‘Fuck, bad enough for me to be calling you about it.’
‘Are you getting enough rest like I told you?’
‘Goddamn it,’ I hiss. ‘A good night’s sleep or two is not going to fix this. This is something else. Something in my head is … malfunctioning.’
There is a pause on the other end. I hear sounds of Tweek rummaging around, drawers opening and closing, things clattering on a desk. I don’t know if it was what I said, or how I said it, but I can hear concern in Tweek’s voice when he finally replies.
‘Okay, okay. As soon as you get back, come straight in. I’ll take a closer look, try some different things. See if we can’t get to the bottom of it.’
‘What should I do in the meantime?’
‘Relax. Meditate.’
‘I’m in a frigging bar, man.’
‘Then get drunk. Numb your head, slow your brain activity.’
‘Trust me, I’m trying.’
‘Try harder.’
He hangs up and I down the rest of my pint. Need another, but the bar is packed. As I get up I suddenly feel the drunkenness that seemed to have been eluding me. One misstep and I’ve hip-checked some guy’s chair, bumping him forward into the pint he’s drinking. I hear him choke on the lager; watch it spill in his lap. Three other guys at his table bitch and moan, giving me shit. Their accents are harsh to my ears.
‘You stupid fucking prat.’
‘Jesus, I’m so, so sorry.’
The guy rises from his chai
r, wiping his chin. ‘You will be.’
‘Looks like you’ve pissed yourself, Roy,’ laughs one of his mates.
Roy isn’t laughing. He gives me a shove. The volume of the pub’s patrons gets halved. Heads begin turning in our direction. I raise my hands, indicating that I want no trouble of any sort.
‘It was an accident, man,’ I say. ‘I’d be happy to pay for another pint.’
He shoves me again. ‘Another pint isn’t gonna fucking dry me off, now is it?’
The second shove is on my bruised ribs and it hurts, a lot. I open my mouth to apologize again, try to smooth things over. An apology isn’t what comes out, much to my surprise.
‘Ah, get fucked.’
‘Eh?’ Roy’s eyes widen. ‘What?’
That wasn’t me, I think, my eyes widening as well. That wasn’t me at all.
Maybe it’s the drink working my lips. Roy’s hands are already balling into fists. Another apology is in order. I go to speak again and realize my mouth isn’t mine. I catch my reflection in a mirror on the wall. My lips are pulled back in a cruel smile.
‘You deaf as well as thick?’ I say. ‘I said get fucked.’
The pub goes quiet. Roy takes one look at his mates and then takes a big swing at me. I duck it easily and get inside his guard, sinking a vicious knee into his crotch, doubling him over with a squawk. Palming the back of his head, I smash his face into the table twice, busting nose and teeth on the varnished wood. One of his hooligan friends jumps out of his seat and grabs me by the throat. I return the move, kicking his ankles out from underneath him with a sweep and slamming his head down hard next to Roy’s. His neck bends at an ugly angle with the hit, but I don’t hear it break. The lack of a snap disappoints me.
The two others get up and come at me. The first one swings wide and I sidestep his attack, nudging him in the ribs hard enough to send his bulk crashing into another table. The second one gets two body shots in before I break a pint glass in his face and dropkick him into the mirror. Just before the glass shatters, I see my reflection. I look like I’m poised to fight a dozen men. My breath is coming in heaves. The smile on my face tells me I’m enjoying it all far too much.
‘Oh my God,’ a nearby woman gasps.
Moans and cursing come from the men on the floor. I look around the pub. Everyone’s eyes are glued to me, wide and horrified. I straighten my clothes, open my wallet, drop more money than I owe on the bar. There is blood on my hands, transferring to the banknotes I lay down. For a single moment I’m reminded of something all too similar, but I forget it in a second.
‘Sorry,’ I say to the bartender.
He says nothing, just looks back and forth between me and the four I’ve beaten up. The patrons part for me as I walk hastily through the pub and out into the drizzle. On the street I break into a run, splashing through puddles, putting some distance between me and the bloody scene I’ve just created.
That wasn’t me, I think again. I wouldn’t have done that.
Two blocks away I stop running and slip into an old telephone box to catch my breath. The blood on my hands makes me feel like vomiting again. I need more rest, need to get in another ten or twelve hours’ sleep back at the hotel. I suddenly want to call Phineas. I know he’s in London, though I suspect he might already be in session. Speaking into my Liaison, I leave a message for him instead to pick up when he’s done.
‘Need to have that chat soon, my friend,’ I say. ‘Pick a place and make sure you call me when your job is done.’
Sick and muttering, I roam the streets of London in the rain until I find an entrance to the Tube and descend. For an hour I ride the Underground aimlessly, crammed in my seat, hypnotized by the tunnel lights flashing outside the windows. Being below ground is comforting somehow, the train carriage packed with mute passengers pressed in around me, the closest thing to a cocoon I can manage. Eventually I feel good enough to make my way back to my hotel and I crawl into bed. Soon I’m sleeping like the dead, dreaming about one of the worst periods of my life, when me and my family hit rock bottom.
15
Rock bottom for my family happened when my parents tried to get their kids into modelling. It all started with some slick guy in a suit coming up to us in an outlet mall one day, praising my folks for having such beautiful offspring, saying we all had that ‘star quality’ about us. After laying on the charm, he gave us his card, said he was a talent scout for a top modelling agency, talked on and on about fashion royalty, designer labels, lifestyles of the rich and famous. The promises were plentiful, the suggestions lucrative. Mom and Dad fell for it hook, line and sinker. They emptied their savings account into headshots and demo reels, outfits and shoes, paying agency fees up front. The twinkle in my parents’ eyes made me eager to please them. In all honesty, both my sisters and I salivated over the prospect of wealth and success for little more than donning new clothes and posing for photographers. The agency told us to be patient, said they were setting things up, and that they would be in touch.
Nothing ever came of it. No gigs were booked. In fact, the phone never rang once. Weeks went by with no contact. Frustrated, my mother called the modelling agency one day, only to discover the number was out of service. She went to their office and found the place gutted and abandoned. The con men had moved overnight. Hundreds of suckers had been caught in the scam, fleeced by these assholes. My family was back in the shit, broke and without prospects. It almost destroyed us. Precious little held the unit together after that. Years later, with all those savings gone, there was no way to pay for my older sister’s cancer treatments when she fell ill. She eventually died because we’d bought some magic beans. That is all I dream about throughout the night, the guilt of it ravaging my slumber.
Late the next morning a kindly old man in a tweed jacket arrives at my hotel in a Rolls-Royce Phantom. He is polite and charming and asks only that I call him Phillip. He takes my bags and drives me out to the countryside of Kent, where his employer resides. We chat for the whole ride. I find myself chuckling at his pithy little jokes. I wind down the window, taking in the rural sights and smells. Low rolling hills rise and fall in all directions. Little crops of cobblestone houses appear along the roadside nestled in plots of lush, damp vegetation. It’s peaceful out here. I find myself nodding off periodically, only to be stirred awake by Phillip’s ramblings. He goes on at length about Mr Shaw and his family, clearly fond of his employer. I can’t help but like him, strikes me as a good sort, sweet and sincere. What’s more, he doesn’t carry a weapon of any kind.
From what Phillip tells me, Mr Shaw seems like he will be a breath of fresh compared to my usual clients. When we enter the wrought-iron gates of the sprawling country estate, I’m charmed by what I see. Manicured gardens and well-kept grounds peppered with objects from bygone eras: birdhouses and baths, trugs and gnomes. It’s kind of cute, this penchant for old things, antiquities abounding. It seems far removed from the modern world, frozen in time outside the city limits. We pull up to the front doors of a massive ivy-covered residence, and I realize how lonely it all feels despite the allure. The place appears unguarded, though I have no doubt there are multimillion-pound security systems in place. I think Phillip may be the only human inhabiting these private acres.
Phillip opens the car door for me, but does not retrieve my bags from the trunk. With a beckoning hand he leads me into the manor. I follow him through the halls of the great house until we come to a cozy lounge with a long bar along one wall. On the floor, in the centre of the room, is an HG unit twice the size of the one I have at home. Phillip picks up a box from a side table and opens the lid to reveal a row of Cohiba Esplendidos.
‘Would you care for a Cuban, Mr Rhodes?’
Most definitely, I tell him. Phillip cuts the ends of two, hands one to me and strikes a match. I lean into the flame, sucking on the cigar.
‘It’s still a challenge to get these in the States,’ I say, puffing thick smoke.
‘I know.’ Phillip
grins and lights his. ‘It’s tragic really.’
I stroll around the lounge, enjoying my smoke, taking in the peaceful air of the place.. Not a typical day on the job. I envy Clive for having had this client as a regular. The dull throb in my ribs soon reminds me of my other clients and my role.
‘Um, will Mr Shaw …?’
‘He will be with us in a moment,’ Phillip replies. ‘And he’s very much looking forward to meeting you.’
As if on cue, the HG unit activates. It takes a few seconds to warm up before a three-dimensional body blooms in the centre of the room. The hologram is that of a man around Phillip’s age, bespectacled and smartly dressed in a maroon blazer. Shaw greets his butler with a warm smile and kind words before his eyes drift over to me.
‘Mr Rhodes, I presume,’ he says, and chuckles. ‘I’d shake your hand, but you know how it is.’
‘I know how it is, Mr Shaw.’
‘Please, do sit down,’ he gestures to the chairs and sofas around the room. ‘Can I have Phillip get you anything? Coffee? Tea? A fine whisky maybe?’
‘Whisky,’ I say, remembering to dull my mind. ‘Definitely.’
‘Phillip, would you be so kind as to bring our guest something that would complement his Cohiba?’
‘I’ve got just the thing.’
Phillip goes to the bar and brings back a whisky, neat. I take a sip and discover it’s even more enjoyable than Winslade’s cognac. Shaw watches me as I drink and smoke in turn, pleased that I’m pleased. I notice when his smile begins to fade.
‘I must say I’m very saddened to hear about Clive.’
Suddenly the cigar and whisky don’t taste so good. ‘We all are, Mr Shaw.’
‘I’m told the Parisian police understand that he was, in fact, attacked first.’
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