Sequela

by Cleland Smith

  'No. No thanks. I'm going home. But first, we're going to get very, very drunk.'

  -o-

  As Dee unlocked the door to her flat, her Book beeped. It was a message from Sebastian saying, Not sure what happened there. Will call you in the morning. He was perfect, but she'd scanned him. He wasn't perfect. Infuriatingly, they were incompatible. Not a complete travesty, but a genetic mismatch nevertheless; there was high potential for a serious genetic condition in any offspring. She was stupid to have done it. To have scanned Kester too. Nature was perverse. Why not just make it if they were attractive to you, then they were right – if the body could do it with immune complement, why not with genetic compatibility?

  Inside, Dee took a bottle of scotch into the kitchen and started to make herself a whisky sour. Unable to find any lemons, she gave up and drank it neat, standing at the worktop. She tried to call Betta but she was still at the party. Turning on her heel, Dee saw her laptop sitting on the kitchen table, half finished funding proposal open on the display. She lunged forward, slammed it shut and swept it off the table with an animal cry. It landed on a pile of A4 and went skidding into the kitchen doorway, sheets of paper fanning out behind it.

  'Fuck,' she said, then stepped over her laptop through the doorway into the lounge, swiping the bottle from the counter as she went. As she entered she noticed the flashing voicemail icon on her wall display. She slumped down on the couch, reached out with a toe and touched the red icon. The room swilled around her.

  'Hello, Delilah darling!' It was Kester's mum. Again. 'I just wanted to see how my favourite girl was doing. And wondered if you'd seen my wayward son recently. Tell him if he doesn't call me soon I'm going to get myself a pass and come and find him at his fancy new office. That'd embarrass him! Speak to you soon, darling.'

  The message ended with a kissing noise.

  Exasperated, Dee refilled her glass and fumbled around for her Book. She flicked over to movies and, grimacing, searched the chick flicks. There were hundreds to choose from but it seemed like she'd seen them all. The ads down the side of the display were all for helplines aimed at pathetic creatures like her, she thought. People who had come back late and drunk, in need of a soppy movie. Infuriated, she aimed her Book like a gun at the second ad and selected it. It didn't ring, but segued into a soothing welcome speech with calming visuals to match.

  The Real Church. Here to help you when you need it. Here to listen. Tending the path to heaven for seventy-five years.

  'I just want to rant at a real human! Is that too fucking much to ask?'

  You may not always have been interested in the Church, but the Church has always been interested in you. Our mission is to bring religion back to humanity, and to put the humanity back into religion.

  'What does it even mean?'

  We believe that everything in the world is perfect, just as God intended – how could it not be? So why all the pain and suffering? Well, while things may be perfect, not everything is in the right order. Imagine the perfect human body. Now mix it up. Put the arms where the legs should be and already things are starting to look a little messy – here the voice gave a soft chuckle – it's the same with the world. The Church specialises in getting things back in the right order: in the world, in your community, in your life.

  Dee was throwing stuff at the wall, now. This was more like it.

  'You think you can get money out of me?' she roared. 'You think you can take advantage of people who are down on their luck and give them false hope. Fucking parasites!'

  We're not claiming that we can work miracles…

  A crackle interrupted the voice-over.

  'No need to. I've seen you do miracles – turning despair into crystal buildings and gold lamé suits – you've got the fucking Midas touch alright.'

  'Oh! Dear me!' said an elderly voice.

  Dee jumped and jerked her Book up to her ear.

  'Sorry, I think I've got…'

  'Don't worry, dear, it's not a wrong number. And we get lots of angry people ringing up. It's OK to be angry.'

  The voice belonged to an old woman. She sounded like a kindly grandmother.

  'I'm so sorry I swore at you. It wasn't you,' Dee said, then made a face to herself and took a swig of scotch.

  'No, no, don't you apologise at all, dear. I expect it's not me you're angry at.' The voice was so fragile, creased and soft with age.

  'No, it wasn't you,' Dee said. 'I was just angry because the ad came up – I just wanted to watch a movie.'

  'You sound lovely, dear,' said the old lady. 'You have such a lovely voice when you aren't swearing.'

  Dee smiled despite herself.

  'Yes, I'm sorry about that – it was nothing to do with you at all. A guy, that's all. I caught a stupid virus off some guy and…'

  'Oh dear. You want to be more careful than that, dear. You're calling from London aren't you? Didn't you have your uploads set?'

  'Yes, but – it's hard to explain. He's a scientist, you see. He was…he tested something out on me without my knowing.'

  'That's awful, dear.' The old woman sounded appalled. 'Have you reported him to the police?'

  'No, no, it's fine,' Dee insisted, keen not to upset the woman. 'Kester's a friend. I mean he was a friend. It was a mistake.'

  There was a pause on the other end of the phone. Dee stood and looked at her image on the wall, face pale, ring of fading gold around her irises, whites of her eyes bloodshot from the drink. She downed her Scotch.

  'Was it a mistake?' the voice asked softly.

  Dee stared at herself.

  'Was it a mistake?' the voice asked again.

  'I was…' Dee started to talk and saw her face contort in the mirror. 'I was…' Tears escaped her eyes. In the blurred corner of her vision, her laptop. 'Why would he do this to me?' Her voice broke into sobs and she slumped down on the sofa, shuddering, rubbing her forehead violently with one palm.

  -o-

  Kester took the outside lift up to his apartment. Dawn was starting to glow through the part-misted wall. He walked straight across the room to the bathroom, chucked his wet shirt on the floor and fought the borrowed one off over his head. Leaning on the sink, he stared down the plughole. Why had he done it? It wasn't like he had slept with a colleague he was leaving behind. She had been part of his world since childhood, friends because they had always been friends; what had possessed him to think he wouldn't have to deal with the aftermath?

  And what had made him think it was a good idea at all? He had seen how all her previous relationships had unfolded, disintegrated. He knew exactly how she felt about one-night stands. Everybody who knew Dee loved her, but they loved her in the way that you love an unpredictable cat; they knew better than to touch the wrong bit. Idiot. She had rolled onto her back, stretched luxuriously and he had put his hand straight into the trap. Double idiot.

  'What happened to your shirt?' Alexis' voice startled him.

  Kester groaned. He wobbled over to the couch, sat along from her and then let himself drop into her lap, not even bothering to wonder why she was there. She stiffened for a few seconds and then he felt her hand on his head.

  'A woman?' she asked.

  Kester mumbled.

  'That woman you infected before?'

  He mumbled again.

  'She attacked you?'

  Kester didn't reply.

  'Do you want me to do something about her?'

  Kester sat bolt upright and stared at Alexis. He couldn't quite focus on her face. He forgot why he had sat up – things had been steadier with his head in her lap. He lowered himself back down until he felt warm brushed cotton and the tolerance of flesh.

  Chapter 10

  Blotch was kneeling at his altar picking at the candle wax when he heard the knock on the door. He assumed the position of prayer and murmured, 'Come in.'

  The door popped open as if caught by a breeze. Blotch looked over his shoulder and then pushed himself, huffing, to his feet. A small grey head
peered round the door. An old woman. His first thought was cake but though she did resemble his grandmother, it was unlikely that she had come to bring him cake.

  'Come in, come in,' Blotch said, squeezing his bulky form in behind his desk.

  It was a small office but he had managed to fit in quite an elaborate altar, the surround of which came right to the edges of the wall. It was directly opposite his desk, so that whoever was sitting in front of him had their back to it. People generally hunched forward when sitting there, or checked over their shoulders now and again as if Jesus might reach out and grab them if they didn't keep an eye on him.

  The little old lady shuffled in and sat herself down with the aspect of a pensioner skipping a bus queue. She must have been in her late eighties.

  'I have some information for you, Minister,' she said.

  'And you are…'

  'Sorry, love, I forget myself. I'm Nan – I work the night shift on your helpline, so we don't see each other much. Desk 28.' She smiled and cocked her head like a bird.

  Blotch couldn't help but smile back. The way she held her hands suggested knitting, though she wasn't carrying any with her.

  'We've had a call I think might be of interest to you,' she said.

  'Oh, yes?'

  'And you know you said that any information on the sinning ways of the City folk that you could use would be rewarded.'

  'Rewarded by the good Lord, I think is what I said.'

  'Well, dear, I hear you have the password to the Good Lord's bank account,' Nan said, winking. 'I'm sure he'd approve a transfer for this.'

  Blotch sat up straight in his chair and pulled down on his office vestments, forcing more chin up and over his collar.

  'Continue,' he said.

  'I spoke to a young girl last night. She was drunk and upset; you know the way. Her boyfriend had infected her with some virus without her knowing and she was mad as hell – oh, I do beg your pardon minister – she was mad as hell, because she doesn't engage in the practice of wearing and he knew that full well.'

  'And?' Blotch had heard it all before.

  'Here's the juicy bit.' Nan caught up the edges of her cardigan and wrapped them tight around her low bosom, folding her arms. 'He's a scientist. He made the virus himself. He was going for some job with a big firm from what I could make out, manufacturing fashion viruses for them to sell.'

  'I'm sorry to disappoint you, Nan,' Blotch said, toying with a golden baby Jesus from the nativity on his desk, 'but we already have a contact inside the highest profile viral manufacturer of all and it looks like it's rather a dead end.' He glanced over at his monitor where Cherry's latest mail titled 'Little to report' was sitting unopened. He was beginning to think that he'd wasted a skipload of Church money just to set a prostitute up with a modelling career. To make matters worse she was in quarantine now, so she was essentially out of action for the next few weeks.

  'Young man,' Nan said, her jowls shuddering, 'I'm not a fool. I have ears and I wasn't finished. This boyfriend worked at some Institute in London, creating military viruses for the government – the poor girl seemed to think that this was a much nobler calling than what he's doing now, but she told me about the sorts of things he'd been developing and I tell you, the red-top sites would have a field day with this stuff.'

  'His name?'

  'Lowe,' the woman said, checking her notes. 'Krister Lowe.'

  'Kester Lowe!' Blotch cried out and smacked the desk. 'Bingo!'

  -o-

  Clarke was tall, angular, made out of deckchairs. Being in the room with him made Blotch feel wide. It seemed unfair to him that there was so much room for Clarke to clonk around in his office, when he had to breathe in to fit behind his desk.

  'You think you can handle this, Blotch?' Clarke said. 'You think you can take this on?'

  Blotch could feel his blood pressure rising. Did Clarke think that he couldn't?

  'Of course, Your Reverence.'

  'The timing is perfect,' Clarke said. 'If what the girl's reports say is true, V is setting Lowe up as a masthead for the whole wearing community. He's taking it all above board. For us that means two things. One, more people than ever are going to take up this filthy practice and its associated activities; two, it'll lose its hedonistic appeal – even if it does remain common practice, the more extreme elements will soon be looking for the next big thrill and then we'll have a new vice to battle.

  'If we can show him for what he is – a bringer of pestilence – if something were to happen to show the people of the City that they are playing with hellfire, just give them a glimpse of the damage this sort of behaviour could bring upon the world, that would truly be God's work.'

  'Yes, Your Reverence, I understand. It does seem the perfect moment.'

  'Our previous experiences –'

  'We have learned from our previous experiences, I assure you.'

  'Given an opportunity like this, with God's blessing, it would be unthinkable that we should fail.' Clarke took a long breath. He lifted his Book and pointed it at the back wall of his office. The wall pivoted round like the doorway to a secret passage to reveal a lavish altar. 'I know you've been looking for promotion, Blotch.'

  'Yes, Your Reverence. For some time now.'

  'This is a career-maker.'

  'Yes, Your Reverence. I have been thinking about how we can use the girl.'

  It had taken him time to see how the pieces could fit together but now that he had figured it out it seemed so obvious to him. All he had to do was wait until Cherry was out of quarantine and persuade her that a little extension of her duties would be worth her while. Time would tell whether she could get him what he needed.

  'You have a plan?'

  'A plan is coming to me, but I would need Your Reverence's help.' Blotch paused for a moment. He found this bit of the process distasteful. 'Money, Your Reverence.' He stopped there; he knew that Clarke would rather not know the details.

  'Of course. Send me an official request for the amount you need and I'll make sure the money's available to you.'

  'Wonderful, Your Reverence.' This could be his moment. 'And you'll consider nominating me for the Centenary promotion?'

  'Ah, the big one. Promotion is promotion is promotion, Blotch…though I suppose they don't all come with a gold necklet. If that's what you want, if you can pull this off and it helps me to get us back in, then yes, I'll find something palatable to nominate you for. Of course this is all between you, me and the Almighty.'

  'Of course,' Blotch said, smiling.

  'Shall we pray?'

  -o-

  The woman sitting at the head of the table was Juno Chen. Kester knew that much from the V portrait hall. She was a middle-aged woman, with Chinese heritage and a Glaswegian accent that she had remodelled with limited success. She was wearing some type of STV-yoked molluscum virus which had spread to her arms; they were dotted with bobbly blisters the size of aphids.

  'We have a special guest with us today,' said Chen, addressing the room. 'You've probably heard his name bandied around the departments over the last few months – Doctor Kester Lowe.' Chen indicated Kester where he sat, at the bottom end of the table next to Farrell. 'He has joined us for the first part of our meeting today as the scientific foil to our business thoughts on the new commercial function in V Division V.' Chen nodded at Alexis. 'So for Doctor Lowe's benefit I will make some introductions before we begin today. I, as you will know, am Juno Chen. I'm Managing Director of VDV. On my left is our Sales and Marketing Director, Mr Roger Yule.'

  Kester nodded at Roger Yule with what he hoped was a businesslike smile. They had met before, at Kester's interview. Yule was a man of unusual proportions; his form sloped down and outwards from his slightly pointed bald head and for all Kester could see, might have continued on outwards under the table, like an iceberg. His skin was the colour of putty. His electric blue eyes and the dazzling smile he returned Kester looked out of place. The dark circles he had been wearing when they first met
had gone.

  According to Alexis, Roger had always had alopecia and had once been a stunningly attractive young man who was always tanned all over. Since he had stopped dealing with clients he had been expanding at a rate almost visible to the naked eye. Her take on this was that he didn't consider it as important to impress his wife or his colleagues as it had been his clients and consequently had let himself go. He no longer had a wife and the rumour went that he had had a personal 'pig room' installed in the back of his office so that he could relieve himself and put on new viruses in privacy and comfort.

  'Continuing clockwise round the table we have Mr Byron Gaunt. Byron handles the pharmacology and pharmaceuticals side of the business. He came to us ten years ago as an expert on chronic disease.'

  'Long-term rot, dear boy.' Byron smiled his charming carnivorous smile. 'It's where the money is. And the longer we can keep them shuffling their god-forsaken carcasses around this mortal coil the more money they can pour gratefully into our benevolent hands.'

  'Quite,' Chen said.

  Byron, a tall man, gaunt in stature as in name, was grey as a wizard but lean and fit-looking for his age. The only thing that took away from this were the scabs at his collar, the same Kester had previously seen on Farrell. Gaunt's demeanour reminded Kester of his grandfather. He recalled how he would say the most horrific things to his dog in a soothing babying voice. As long as the tone was right, the dog just kept on wagging its tail and staring at him adoringly. Despite the rather unscrupulous introduction he had spun for himself, Kester got a good feeling from Gaunt.

  'On Byron's left,' Chen continued, 'is our Acting Director of Strategy, Ingrid Jones. Ingrid has seen us through the past business year during our DS's illness.'

  'Long-term rot,' Byron Gaunt said in his silky moneyed tones and winked at Kester.

  'Quite,' Chen responded as before to Byron's comment.

  'I'm keeping his coffin warm for him,' said Jones without a trace of humour.