Sequela

by Cleland Smith

  'It's our little secret, right?' Kester said happily and sunk back down into his pillows. He let the wine envelop him and was asleep by the time her answer came.

  Chapter 15

  'How was quarantine?' Dee said.

  'That's it?' Cherry asked, looking at the Clarks' shoebox in front of her. It looked out of place amongst the technical equipment on the Institute lab bench.

  'Yes,' Dee said.

  'That's all they wanted?'

  'That's all they need. Small things, viruses. And they have this handy habit of reproducing at quite a rate.' Dee was clearly comfortable in her role as expert and Cherry's uncertainty was feeding her confidence.

  Cherry leaned in and examined the box more closely. On the label was a picture of a woman's brogue, the size 5 and the name Broadway.

  'My size,' she said with a little smile and glanced down at Dee's feet to see if she was wearing the shoes. She wasn't.

  'Not my box,' Dee said.

  As Cherry reached to remove the lid, Dee put out her own hands quickly and took the lid off for her.

  'There's an envirobox inside – pretty neat fit. It should keep the vials safe. It's all padded and sealed, so don't worry about it too much. On the other hand, I wouldn't play football with it either.'

  'What if a vial were to break?' Cherry was suddenly aware she would be carrying a shoebox full of disease through central London.

  'Don't worry. As I said, it's sealed. Plus, in the small amounts you're carrying the virus wouldn't last in open air for more than a few minutes, depending on the conditions. I'm not saying I would lick it up if it spilled, but you know, don't sweat it.' She replaced the lid on the shoebox.

  Cherry unzipped her backpack and slipped the shoebox inside.

  'OK,' she said. 'Once this gets to where it's going your money will be transferred across. I'm back in quarantine until a few weeks after the fashion show so you won't be hearing from me for about a month. You know what you're doing with the second virus?'

  'It'll be ready for you when you need it. Now, if you'll excuse me I have some clearing up to do.'

  'Of course.' Cherry walked to the door.

  Outside, the weather was lacklustre. It didn't want to go either way and just stayed a light grey all afternoon. This was fine for Cherry – good weather for walking. It would take her a good few hours to get across London, but she didn't want to risk travelling on public transport in case of incident. She had no idea what the scanners on the underground could pick up, and anyway there were always spot checks and just generally too much jostling for comfort. On foot there was much less that could go wrong. She would walk up towards the Kilburn Green Belt train stop, avoiding the City and its checkpoints altogether, and then take the train round to City B3. Then it was only a short walk back to the Hospital.

  Cherry headed for St James's Park. No point in walking all the way through concrete when she could go through the parks. It was worth the slight detour. She threaded up through St James's Park, Green Park, Hyde Park, checking her Book now and again. In Hyde Park she allowed herself to wander off course, heading down towards the Kensington Gardens end. The name Bayswater had caught her eye on the map. It was familiar, as were many of the street names in the area. Instinct told her she might know the place if she passed through. She crossed Bayswater Road and headed up Palace Court.

  As Cherry walked, unexpected things slotted into place in her memory: the pattern on a cast iron railing, the shape of a tree in a private green, the positions of lamp posts. She paused by a small pre-school nursery, a normal town house with pictures in the window and a happy handmade sign. Sellotape, sunshine filtered through tissue paper, the chalky texture of drying paint. Was it her nursery? Unlikely, she decided, but the memory was real. This was the right area. She had lived here somewhere, or visited here. It was a place to come back to when she had the time. Checking her Book again, Cherry pulled herself back on course, back along Westbourne Grove, then up and under the Westway and on towards Kilburn.

  To the east was Maida Vale. It must have stayed reasonably static during the building boom, as there was little stratification, particularly on the older buildings. Beyond it somewhere was Regent's Park past which the scoop of the City banked steeply upwards. Ahead, towards Kilburn, Cherry was faced with ranks of office buildings. The character of the more recent structures was different to those in the City, less slick, more uniform and, if anything, more oppressive. She felt as if she were walking towards the outer edge of a walled city. She stopped and looked back the way she had come. Bizarre that facing in towards the centre of London should give her the greatest sense of freedom.

  The train ride from Kilburn and the walk across the Green Belt seemed short in the context of Cherry's journey. Too short. Though the wind was picking up and the weather was still grey, she felt herself start to work up a sweat as she drew close to her old stomping ground.

  The Hospital looked small. Its grandeur was small-town grandeur, suburban grandeur. Despite the walk down the High Street with its long line of low level kebab shops and chemists, Cherry's brain was still working on central London scale. As she entered the front doors, the shabbiness of the building hit her. The paintwork was marked and peeling. The strip of veneer from the front of the reception desk had curled away and had been removed, revealing the desk's chipboard interior. A pair of court-shoed feet was up on the desk, crossed, one shoe hanging by the toes. Their owner was slumped in a swivel chair reading a magazine.

  'Boo!' Cherry said.

  'Cherry!' Frieda, the receptionist, jerked her feet down, sat up and closed her magazine.

  'Hi, Frieda,' Cherry said. 'Just popping by to see Lady.'

  'Lovely,' Frieda said. 'I think she's in her rooms at the moment, so you'll probably catch her there. Don't let the girls see you in that dress,' she added as Cherry walked on into the corridor. 'They'll be mad you took it with you.'

  Cherry looked down at the dress. There had been smarter, newer clothes in Lady's collection, but this had always been a favourite. It seemed drab to her now.

  It wasn't far to Lady's rooms. Cherry passed no-one on the way and was relieved for it. She was feeling something akin to embarrassment at being there, a discomfort she couldn't put her finger on; pity maybe. She knocked on the door to Lady's living room. There was a scuffling from behind the door and then, a few seconds later, Lady's voice sounded, slightly more high-pitched than normal.

  'Come!'

  Cherry opened the door and peered in. There was a gentleman picking up his coat and hat from the stand. He nodded to her briskly. As he passed her to leave the room, Cherry noticed his hand dart to and from his flies, an automatic check. Lady was standing at the window, smoothing back her hair.

  'Is it a bad time?' Cherry asked. 'I can come back later.'

  'Not at all,' Lady said. 'Our meeting had just finished.'

  Things must be tight if Lady was starting to see clients again. She hadn't done for years as far as Cherry knew. Perhaps this was some special case. Perhaps he wasn't even a client. She decided not to pry.

  'So,' Lady said. She turned to face Cherry and indicated the couch.

  Cherry pulled out one of the chairs at the table and swung her bag down in front of her. She removed the shoebox. Lady opened the lid and nodded. She was obviously familiar with the envirobox.

  'You've spoken to Blotch?' Cherry asked.

  'I have. The Pigs are being careless. They're taking on as many new viruses as they can get their hands on ahead of the show and there's no time to try before they buy – loads of them are doing specials and presumably they're expecting a big rise in business. Your friend Marlene did a wonderful job posing as a German blackmarket dealer – I listened in to one or two of the calls. All the City branches are in fierce competition so once she got one to take it, they mostly followed suit.'

  'Not to be outdone.'

  'Quite. Anyway, they won't trace it back to us. And they won't want to admit where it came from anyway or they'll be
in trouble for blackmarket trading.'

  'Good. Doctor Campbell says you can sell it as whatever you want. Customers will just assume that it hasn't worked and with a bit of luck will go back for something else before the virus sets in – that should confuse the trail too.'

  It felt like Lady was reporting to Cherry in an odd role reversal.

  'Do you know what it does?' Lady asked, an offhand frown on her face.

  'Didn't ask. I think it's best we don't know. But Blotch assured me it wasn't a horrible disease or anything like that. He seems to be a man of his word.'

  Lady raised her eyebrows.

  'Call it what you want,' Cherry continued. 'The vials aren't labelled yet.'

  'Fine. I'll make the labels up myself. They'll be out for delivery by this evening.'

  'Good.' Cherry zipped up her bag. That was it. 'I'll report back to Blotch tonight when I get back.' It seemed too easy.

  'Thank you, Cherry,' Lady said.

  She sounded genuinely thankful. It wasn't a tone Cherry had ever heard in her voice before. Then her face turned hard.

  'With any luck that fat bastard will pay me now.' She replaced the lid on the shoebox carefully. 'Are you going to stop by the runk room?'

  'No.' Cherry glanced down at her dress in search of a reason not to. 'No, I think I'd better get back. Good luck,' she added and headed to the door.

  -o-

  Kester lay on his dentist's chair staring at the ceiling, the phone to his ear, half listening to his mother, half trying to visualise what the show would be like. Only one day to go and he would find out. The build-up had been bizarre but enjoyable. The web appearances, his many personae: Doctor Lowe the scientist, Kester Lowe the designer, Kester the sex symbol, Kes, best buddy of The Itch, if the way they had behaved on their Friday's House slot was anything to believe. He had been on quiz shows, current affairs shows, lifestyle shows; he had launched products, attended photoshoots for designer gear (with the labels picked off); he had opened a gallery exhibition about the history of body art. He was knackered. He had stopped concentrating when his mother started telling him some story about the next door neighbour's dog. He didn't know the next door neighbour, never mind their dog.

  'Kester? Are you still there?'

  The change in her tone snapped him back to attention.

  'I asked if they're looking after you alright.'

  'Yes, yes they are. It's ridiculous really. You wouldn't believe it – they're employing a team to pick all the ads off my clothes, poor bastards.'

  'Language, Kester! A whole team? Goodness me, you must be important. And I suppose they come and dress you in the morning too.'

  'Not far off it, actually. They choose all my clothes and have them sent up to me.'

  'Good god.'

  'If I'm going out or on telly I mean. And I get to choose from a selection…and I've briefed them on the sorts of things I will and won't wear. I had an image consultation when I first started – you know we have to wear labels that are affiliated with the company – but this was all a bit more full-on. And they sent me for a haircut.'

  'I should think so too, if you're going to be on telly.'

  'Yes, the show.' Kester felt uneasy. He remembered coming home as a teenager and seeing that his mother had cleaned his room.

  'Yes, dear. We're all very excited about the show – I'm having a party!'

  For a moment, Kester was thrown. He didn't see the connection.

  'A party – it's quite the thing. Lots of people are doing it – those that don't object too much and like a good show anyway.'

  'A party to watch it?'

  'Yes, darling, with drinks and canapés! Marvellous, don't you think. I'm asking people to bring friends of friends and I'll have some stock from the shop – all that shenanigans might get people in the mood to buy some nice undies, don't you think?'

  'I don't know…I suppose…'

  'It's going to be great! The dog gets excited every time he sees your picture in the trailers. Now, speaking of the panty party, I've been meaning to ask you if you could do me a favour. I've sent a box of panties for you to sign.'

  'Mum!' Kester's cheeks burned.

  'It's a bit late notice, but Justine in the shop only just thought of it yesterday. It should arrive this afternoon and I thought you could get one of your lab-monkeys to courier it back, in time for the show tomorrow.'

  'Of course I will, Mum.' He closed his eyes and shook his head.

  'I hope you can identify it in amongst all your other post – I bet you're getting sent loads of panties now you're famous!'

  'Hundreds a day.' Kester looked up at the ceiling. 'Listen, how is the dog?'

  'He's excited!' his mother replied. 'Just like the rest of us. Now you must have lots to do and I know I do – I'm making some spotty cupcakes for the party.'

  'OK, Mum,' Kester said. 'I hope you sell lots of stuff tomorrow.'

  'Me too!' She was close to bursting. 'I love you, darling. Bye!'

  'Bye, Mum.'

  'Bye.'

  Kester put down the phone and flicked his wall to web. He had been avoiding the build-up, but maybe it was worth knowing what was being said.

  '…and business at the Pigs is up by 50%, five - zero, because lots of people want to be wearing the latest viruses for the show.'

  'But these are not Kester Lowe viruses?'

  'That's right, they're not Kester Lowe viruses and indeed I've spoken to some young lawyers here today who have "cleaned up", as they put it, so that they can be blank canvases in the hope of getting their hands on a Kester Lowe original tomorrow night.'

  'That's Doctor Lowe to you,' Kester said, changing the channel.

  'Crowds are already gathering in the square outside V, trying to get a good spot for the show tomorrow night. If you look behind me here you can see some of the extent of what everyone is now calling "Kestermania".'

  Kester's eyes widened. He looked across to the door of his office, as if he might be able to see the crowd from his seat, but he didn't get up. They'd been gathering since lunchtime and the pictures on the news showed hundreds of people already.

  'If I could get across the square to show you, there is also a queue right down in the direction of the PlayPen of literally hundreds of fans hoping to get their hands on some of the on-the-night tickets. And it's not just the fans that are getting ready. You can see above me that the police and ambulance services are setting up their zip-wires across the square. Up here there's an officer testing out his harness – you can see him whizzing across above my head now.'

  That, Kester could see. It had taken a few days to set up and by chance the zip wires and paramedic platforms were at the same level as the floor the lab was on. Kester was already on waving terms with one or two of the set-up crew. He changed the channel again. An angry man was being interviewed.

  '…is just rubbish. You can't make it safe and even if you could, making it safe doesn't make it moral. But that's not what gets me most – what gets me most is that one of our top scientists is working on fashion accessories for bloated rich folk when he could be making viruses that are – viruses for medical use, to help all those people out there who have diseases they can't just switch off.'

  Kester flicked again quickly.

  'Commentators are starting to agree that a non-harmful form of virus wearing might not be such a bad thing. But one question that we haven't looked at yet tonight is perhaps, for our viewers, the most burning issue. Doctor Kester Lowe's spokesperson and V are claiming that they are, quote, "redefining fashion", that these viruses are going to be, quote, "beautiful", but let me ask our studio guests – even if a virus is beautiful – is it Art? Colin.'

  Kester guffawed and flicked through a few more channels in turn. It was bizarre, amusing. He understood the build-up to the show, the excitement around seeing the new viruses for the first time, but the amount of discussion surrounding it was ludicrous. It was as if the press genuinely didn't have anything else to talk about.


  'Me…me…me…me,' he said as he flicked. 'Me me me me me.'

  He snorted, zapped the "off" icon and pushed himself up from the couch in the direction of the fridge.

  -o-

  '…and in the City itself: Old Broad Street, Cock Lane, St Mary Axe, Cheapside –'

  'Marvellous!' Clarke interrupted Blotch. 'Marvellous.'

  'The list goes on,' Blotch said. 'Almost all of the City branches have taken the virus.'

  'Marvellous,' Clarke repeated.

  'They were sold by a pseudonymous German blackmarket dealer and most of the houses have taken on new stock from quite a few places in the last few days as well – they're all getting new viruses in for the show.'

  'An added bonus…'

  'Quite,' Blotch said. He stood in Clarke's office feeling taller than usual. It was all coming off perfectly.

  'Minister Blotch, this calls for a celebration!' Clarke said, clapping his hands together.

  Blotch licked his lips. It was only eleven o'clock, but he could quite handle a little tipple. He felt giddy with success and it seemed a shame to waste it. Clarke reached under his desk. Blotch smiled at him conspiratorially. Just then, a soft buzzing sounded at the back of the room: Clarke's wall was revolving slowly to reveal his fabulous altar. His hand came up empty.

  'Remote control,' Clarke said, waggling his fingers with a smile. 'Rather good, no?'

  Blotch gave what he hoped was an impressed laugh and tried to hide his disappointment.

  'Let us pray,' Clarke said.

  Chapter 16

  The square was illuminated as if by stained glass and sunlight. Opposite the V building glowed the alternating hellish red and pulsating green of the Stark Wellbury scaffolding, a reproduction of the frontage of their building, carrying on as normal and setting the colour scheme for the whole square.

  The buildings that flanked the square had been decked with silk panels, transformed into two block-sized screens, facing off against one another. One depicted a magnified microscope image of KL01, Corona, at work invading a cell. The image had been enhanced so that it glowed the colours of a baroque theatre – gold, blood red, forest green – to complement the Stark Wellbury display. The other was devoted to ad-space for the show sponsors, clients and associates of V Division V.