'You know, maybe with a belt,' Cherry said, but couldn't keep a straight face.
'Oh, like a two-parter, yes, I like it.'
'You're disgusting.' Cherry started to look through the shoe rack to see if there was anything new.
'Hello, ladies.' Tim was leaning in the door, bare-chested. The strip-lights laid a pale halo across his smooth blonde hair. 'Ooh, baby,' he said, seeing Marlene, 'take that off before I cream myself!'
'You always did have a faecal fetish,' Marlene said, winking at him. 'You're as bad as the clients.' She disappeared back behind the rail to pick out a new outfit.
-o-
'So who are we tonight, Marlene?' Cherry asked as she and Marlene stepped off the airport bus.
While Marlene mulled over her question, Cherry took in the scenery. The sky overhead was gradated: toward the City it was misty with white office light, punctuated by occasional neon bursts where a logo crested a building; over the airport it became a traditional suburban bar-heater orange; further out still it was dark. The walk from the bus stop took them along a bright ring road. There were tall floodlights every thirty feet or so but they were made redundant by the blinding advertising hoardings that fenced the outer edge of the road. On the opposite side of the road was a long strip of airport hotels, the building materials and window design betraying the decade that each was built in. The target client base of each hotel was revealed by the products being advertised on the hoardings opposite.
'We're on our way back from a hen party,' Marlene said. She had a knack of coming up with scenarios off the top of her head. 'The hen works in the fashion industry so we all had tickets to the launch of Dillinger & Bosch's new range in Berlin. We slept with all sorts of people there. We're here on a stopover on our way home to Edinburgh.'
'A stopover flying London to Edinburgh? That seems a little unnecessary.'
'OK, smart arse. Our flight was cancelled so they've put us up here for the night and we're getting on the first flight tomorrow.'
'Fine. Sounds plausible. But what if they ask what Berlin was like?' Cherry had never left London.
'Just say, "Wild, totally wild…" Then let your eyes go misty as if you're remembering something. That should satisfy them. And we didn't have any time to visit anything cultural because we were too busy drinking and shagging and watching the show.'
'Good.' As they passed the Sofitel, Cherry's eye was caught by the Galletti advert she had seen earlier outside the hospital. 'Been in here lately?' she asked Marlene.
'No. Didn't have a great deal of wearers last time I was in.'
Cherry nodded towards the adverts that were showing. 'They're obviously getting a few now. They're starting to recognise me at the Helicon so I need to give it a break.'
Marlene shrugged in agreement and they turned off down the drive. They followed the path around the side of the building where it took a long shallow slope down towards the direct entrance to the bar. Inside, the basement level bar was surrounded by inward sloping mirrors which reflected the view from the sub-basement pool. The décor of the pool, tiny shimmering green tiles, lent the bar a sensuous underwater feel and lit the engraving in the mirror above the art deco style bar, a Muchaesque nymph suspended in water, sheer robes swirling around her. As Cherry gazed at the nymph, the unwelcome image of a fat businessman swam past. She grimaced and Marlene laughed out loud.
'I know,' said the barman as he approached them. 'Not quite what the designers had in mind. What can I get for you, ladies?'
'A Velvet Rope for me please,' Cherry said.
'Straight vodka for me,' Marlene added.
The barman started to prepare their drinks.
'I'm afraid our companions haven't arrived yet, but they said to put it on their tab – is it OK to do that when they show?' Cherry asked.
'Yes, no problem,' the barman said with a sideways smile.
Cherry turned her back to the bar and leaned against the thick brass handrail. There were only three people in so far but it would busy up in the next hour or so. She casually inspected the current crowd. One had a delegate's bag from a pharma conference. Could be ambitious; he looked like he was still working. A beeped tune sang out from his Book and he swore. No – he was playing a game. His bag was probably just stuffed full of freebies. The second was looking at her watch too often. She would have been a good bet but she obviously had a flight to catch and was calming her nerves before she set off for the terminal. The third looked promising. Marlene already had her drink and was making her way over to him. She glanced over her shoulder at Cherry.
'Beat-cha! That's why I never order cocktails.'
Cherry watched as Marlene made her approach. Her target was young, broad and tall, and he had marks on his face where a set of sores had recently healed. Perhaps he had been hoping to pick up something new wherever he had been and had set his screen to get rid of them – wanted a blank canvas.
There was an American feel to his clothing – blazer and slacks, ads concentrated on his upper arms like scout badges – but his scraggy dyed-black hair style betrayed a more alternative look outside his work environment. If he ever spent time outside work. His wearing most likely made him a New Yorker or a Bostonian, unless he worked in a London office long-term and was heading home for a visit some place that wearing wasn't approved of. If so, he should have uploaded sooner.
Marlene had established herself in the seat next to him and they were already laughing together. She looked up and beckoned to Cherry. Cherry picked up the drink the barman had just placed at her elbow and walked over to join them.
'Cherry, this is Brad,' Marlene said and continued talking as Cherry shook Brad's hand. 'Brad's just come back from Berlin – can you believe it? I was just telling him how we were supposed to go and missed it. Can you believe we ended up stranded here in London? These guys – what was your friend's name? Lena? Lena's about to join us – they were there the whole time.'
'Wow,' Cherry said, quickly working through Marlene's revision to their story. 'I'm so jealous.'
'I know,' Brad said with a kind smile. 'It's not something I'd like to miss, particularly when the company's paying for it.'
'What do you do?' Cherry asked.
'I work in merchandising and promotions for the Yankees.'
'That must be quite a job.' Cherry leaned in closer. 'So what took you to Berlin? You were at the show, right?'
'Right. It wasn't so much for the fashion as for the wearing scene. You've seen the new Nike ads?'
Cherry nodded.
'My boss is negotiating with a potential sponsor and he wanted me to try and pick up something exclusive, if you know what I mean, to sweeten the deal. Something our new star can wear in our ads.'
'You wouldn't just commission something?' Marlene asked.
'He's very much of the mind that if we can get something straight off the catwalk or from a high-worth individual, that would be better. Anybody with money can buy the exclusive in the first place. Plus, that sort of money would buy us a top pitcher.'
'Good point,' Cherry said.
'You don't wear?' Brad asked Cherry.
'No.' Cherry tried her best to look innocent.
'You should. Good looking girl like you. It could only do your career good. What do you do?'
'I'm a little scared of wearing to be honest.' Cherry ignored his last question. 'I know it would help me…I'd like to but…I don't know. Did you manage to pick anything up? Do you know yet?' Keep asking questions about him. Cherry had learned that if you questioned people enough and kept them talking about themselves, most of them would happily spend a whole night with you knowing nothing but your name.
Brad glanced down at his Book where it lay on the table. 'Not sure yet.' Just then, a slight woman in an understated grey dress approached them. 'Lena!' Brad said enthusiastically. 'Let me introduce you to Cherry and Marlene. They were supposed to go to Berlin but missed it – long story. Marlene, you wouldn't believe it – Lena got it together with Hetta Camp
bell, or so she keeps telling me.'
'Really,' Marlene said, with a knowing nod. 'Come on – let me buy you a drink.' She stood to lead Lena to the bar.
'Put it on my tab,' Brad said as they walked away. 'This one's on the Yankees.' He turned his attention back to Cherry. 'I don't know if her story about Campbell is true because I was in a backstage exchange booth with Karl Dillinger at the time.'
'Actual Dillinger?' Cherry put her hand to Brad's then pulled it away quickly. Coy, but not too coy.
Brad nodded. 'He had a brand new exclusive on. A good old-fashioned syphilis mod. Calls it "Der Handschuh" – "The Glove". Tollbooth designed it for him. It's an extension and adaptation of the classic palm rash.'
'Sounds cool,' Cherry said.
She glanced down at his hands. There was nothing there. She tried to gauge if he had any other signs it might be coming on. There were tiny beads of sweat around his hairline, but it was hot in the bar.
'It's very cool. Maybe a good one to start with.' Brad raised his eyebrows at Cherry.
Cherry glanced with mock nerves at the exchange booth in the corner of the room. She should go for it. This was the best lead she'd had in weeks and if she didn't bring in something soon she'd end up spending a week on hooker duty to pay her way.
'We can go to my room if that would make you more comfortable,' Brad said.
Cherry opened her mouth, looking tempted but fiddling with the edge of her dress.
'I'll have another drink sent up for you – it was a…'
'Velvet Rope,' Cherry said quickly and giggled.
'Alright.'
As Brad stood to go to the bar, Marlene looked round at Cherry and winked. It was looking good from both ends then. Cherry gave a quick grin. Jackpot, she mouthed.
-o-
Kester woke, disoriented. The ceiling looked wrong and the lightshade…he was at Dee's. He was in Dee's bed! He was in Dee's bed…
He glanced over to his left, moving only his eyes, wanting to keep the moment to himself for now, unsure how he felt about it. Unsure how it felt about him. There she was.
Kester fast-forwarded through the previous night in his head: the café, the bar, the square – my god, the square – Dee's front door, Dee's bed and then yes, a drunken foray of fumbling and apologies. Through the fuzzy memories came the vivid picture of her sharp features looking up at him from the pillow, pale skin and flushed cheeks, her long black hair spread out around her head in wild waves that stretched out past the edges of his memory. A remembered shudder of pleasure shot through him, making him twitch and clearing the pain from his head for a few moments.
It wasn't long until Kester's hangover flooded back in to his head. When he moved the pain sloshed from side to side. Staying still was the only solution. Or…he reached out a hand and felt Dee's warm stomach slipping away from his touch.
'Need some water,' she murmured as she slid from the bed and walked carefully to the bathroom door.
It was still dark, but…Kester let his head fall to the side in search of a clue to the time. The pain sloshed again. The figures on the wall glowed gently in the twilight. 17:30. No, it wasn't still dark; it was dark again. They'd been asleep for…he muddled through the sum…twelve hours…thirteen hours. Thirteen hours, Kester thought. A plunger went down in his throat. Just then, he heard a smash and a sickly shriek from the bathroom.
'Kester…' Dee appeared in the doorway of the room, holding onto the door posts. 'My eyes…Kester…' Her voice was on the edge of panic, her lip trembling. She wobbled across the room towards him.
'Oh shit.' Kester sat up too quickly and sent a giant throb of pain to the crown of his head. The virus. He was still infectious. Thirteen hours – the time it took for the virus to establish in the target tissue. 'I'm sorry,' he said, clutching his head. 'It's harmless. I can get you the uploads. Just let me get my screen.'
Dee fell silent for a moment. She was on her knees at the side of the bed now, staring at him.
'What?' she asked, putting a hand to her head.
'I said I'm sorry, I was still infectious – I didn't give my uploads time to get rid of the virus fully. The upload will deal with it.'
'Kester?' Tears were running down her face. 'You did this?'
Kester felt the panic rising in his chest as the thoughts raced across her face.
'You slept with her. Her eyes…was that?'
'You knew…'
'I thought you were joking.' Her voice was rising. 'I thought you were joking.' She looked up at him, rage carving deep shadows in her face. 'What did you think –'
'It's OK –'
'OK?' Dee screamed, staggering to her feet. 'I'm bleeding out of my fucking eyes!'
She launched herself at him and smacked him in the jaw with surprising strength. Kester cried out, clutching his buzzing face and struggling out of the other side of the bed.
'It's just a few cells – it'll only take a few days for the upload to clear it completely, unless you want to wear it.'
'Shut up!' The words ripped from her throat. 'Get out.'
'But the uploads…'
'Get out!' She climbed off the bed and chased after him, pushing him against the wall.
'My clothes…'
Dee wrestled him out of the bedroom door and pushed it closed against him. He held the image of her in his head: pupils wide with fear, pale belly, perfect landing strip, black and white all over except for the flush of anger on her cheeks and the bloody rings around her irises.
Kester's clothes were in a sad soft heap at the bottom of Dee's couch, underpants nestled inside his jeans.
'What a cock.' He grabbed his head again. He could hear her crying through the door. He looked around for something to write on. Her Book was open on the table and he pulled it towards himself weakly.
Dee, I'm sorry. I thought you knew about the interview and I was just so drunk last night I forgot about the virus. I kept it in case there was a second round of interviews. I just forgot to upload. It won't do you any damage, he wrote. He deleted what he'd written, and then wrote the same thing again. The blood spots are just temporary and the virus is self-limiting. I'll send the uploads, but even without them it won't do any harm.
That's not right, he thought. Then, hearing her moving around in the bedroom, talking to herself, he dashed over to his clothes. He'd seen her mad at other people before. She'd be pacing in circles, winding herself into a needled vortex. She'd be looking for things to throw. His jeans on, Kester rushed back to the Book and added, I'm sorry. He paused over the last sentence wondering whether to add anything more, then thought better of it.
Fumbling his Book out of his pocket he texted Betta: I fucked up. Dee's mad at me – I can't explain now – can you go over? He grabbed his shirt, walked quickly to the door and left.
Chapter 4
Alfred Blotch, Minister to Peter
Blotch polished his badge with the sleeve of his robe and surveyed the room before him: eighty square feet of abrasive blue carpet filled with bank after bank of wood-effect diamond-shaped desk modules. Each module seated four headsetted volunteers facing in towards each other. In front of each volunteer was a keyboard and monitor along with a round palm-sized 'call-ready' button built into the desk. The glowing call-ready button was designed to allow the volunteers to indicate to the system when they were ready to take their next call, turning red when they were on a call, amber when the call was over and green when they had hit the button. Together the buttons provided Blotch and his floor manager with a visual map of call volume and of who was working hard and who was not. Long green pauses indicated a slow day and on busier days, when the buttons hardly showed green long enough to be perceived, a lingering amber glow amongst the sea of red was quick to draw the eye.
It was busy today, a red day. This was good for the Real Church but bad for Blotch's headache. The room had the acoustics of a leisure centre and the slightly sympathetic tone that was required with most calls gave the constant gabble of voices a depr
essing edge that wore him down across the day.
Blotch started his two-hourly tour of the helpline floor, walking slowly like an adjudicator, hands behind his back. The static built up in his robe as it dragged behind him, the grain of its hem catching and releasing on each rough carpet fibre. Tuning in and out of conversations as he walked, he let each 'hmm', each 'I understand', each 'let it out' wash over him. These were the boring ends of the conversations. Every now and then there was a tantalizing 'Is she still friends with your wife?' or a 'Really, three of you?' but for the most part it was platitudes and comfort.
Halfway through his floor walk there was a blip, blip, blip from somewhere inside his robes. An escalation. Blotch nodded to the floor manager and returned to his office, a few doors along the corridor. This was the only time he got to hear the good stuff himself. And it was usually pretty good – calls were only escalated where the caller was in particularly bad trouble, or where the subject matter of the call was deemed dodgy in some way. Those calls could be enjoyable but even they frustrated him. If he knew that some of the calls had ended well – an averted suicide, an abandoned insurance fraud scheme – that would be something. But even as centre manager, there was no ringing back caller 8592 and asking, 'Did you manage to resist having it off with your brother's wife?' No closure; no job satisfaction. His life was a montage of cliff-hanger endings from cancelled soap operas.
Blotch closed the door to his small office and squeezed in behind the desk, putting in his earpiece as he settled himself in his chair.
'Hello?' he said, hopefully.
'Hello, Minister,' came a voice in automatic comfort mode. 'It's Simon Shaw here. I've got a potential call-back for you.'
A call-back. Dull. And probably nothing.
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