'Here, I caught your bottle,' said an enthusiastic, androgynous youth, pressing the vodka back into Kester's hand.
'Thanks,' he said, still puzzling over Lance's comment. 'No, no,' he said eventually, having turned around a few times on the spot. 'You didn't hear me – that wasn't me.'
'What?' Lance asked.
'I said – I was telling these people…' Kester knew they were out there somewhere in the bar. He pointed in a couple of different directions, squinting, looking for red hair. 'I was telling them…'
This was no good. They couldn't hear him. They needed to hear the end of his explanation. He needed to get things straight with the redhead. Kester plonked his bottle down on the bar and clambered up after it, sliding up onto his belly. He grabbed the neck of the bottle and used it to push himself up on to his knees, then his feet. The lighting in the bar was strange, like a monitor on the blink, the colours slightly wrong, a scrolling lag pulling the picture up and up. He took a slug of vodka from the bottle and surveyed the crowd. Seeing a shock of red hair, Kester pointed and smiled.
'You're there!' he cried out. 'There you are! Now…' He moved his feet further apart and stopped smiling. This required seriousness. This needed to be said and said now. 'Everybody, Lance, red haired lady, you – barperson – listen. Let me tell you.'
-o-
Blotch just couldn't stop laughing. He knew it was wrong to laugh at someone else's ills but he just couldn't help it. This was the best Monday in living history. He wiped a tear away from his eye and looked back at his display. Doctor Kester Lowe was on the front page of every site. He had thought it was good when he saw the Pera Pera pictures, but this was priceless. There was the City's precious hero, pictured standing on top of a bar, clutching a bottle, stains down his corporate front and blood encrusting his nostrils. His face was captured in mid-shout, distorted, his frowning brows sending horned shadows up his forehead. DR NO! the headline read.
Blotch clicked a link and his fallen nemesis came to life before him. The sound wasn't great and Lowe's voice was struggling over the drunken whoops of his audience but the message was clear – he was denouncing his employers, making lurid claims about his scientific ambitions and abilities – he had completely lost it. Blotch allowed a wild laugh to escape his shuddering form and clicked again to stop the clip. He mustn't revel in it.
This was unexpected to say the least. All the effort they had put in to get Cherry in place and here V was tearing itself apart from the inside thanks to its degenerate practices. The Doctor might even turn out to be an asset. Blotch took a few deep breaths to calm himself, flicked off his display and set off to brief Clarke.
-o-
Kester lifted his head from his arms and buzzed for another coffee. Sunday's revelations had been brutal, but right now Monday was his worst enemy. He was poisoned. His head was solid pain, and his internal organs were tenderized and swollen with the after-effects of drink. His previous night's binge in the City was already homepage news: details of what he drank, the two fights, one with a stranger and one with a bollard, the slurred lecture he had given whilst standing on the bar in Brass clutching a bottle of vodka. It had made him feel better at the time. He chose not to read any of the reports; he didn't want to know what he had said.
When he had set out the night before he had been spoiling for a fight and had been determined that he was going to leave V. By the end of the night he was going to find a way to trace the first virus, go back to the Institute and save the day. This morning he was too delicate to make any decisions. Large portions of the night were blurred or missing and he felt guilty in a way he hadn't felt since fresher's week at Uni.
Everyone was leaving him well alone, communicating with him only via messages to his Book and only if they had to. There was no word from Yule since a message late the day before, after their aborted meeting. He had seemed adamant that the news about the Institute wasn't a big deal, that Kester's fans didn't care, that it was all good hype. But he seemed to have missed the point that all of Kester's friends were being put out of jobs. This morning presumably saw him mopping Kester's sick off the homepages. No doubt he would think this was great publicity too – a distraction from the previous day's stories.
There was no word from Alexis either. But Alexis had said she was sorry. What more could she say? And she needn't be sorry. It was Kester's own fault. He dropped his head back onto his arms as sober guilt piled on drunken guilt. If he hadn't taken funding to develop the viruses in the first place it couldn't have happened; if he hadn't come here and let Alexis make a stupid celebrity out of him he would never have become a target. Never mind that some bad people had taken it upon themselves to launch the attack – he had made it all possible for them.
And what now? He looked up again, wincing. His Book was beeping, reminding him that he had appointments with the models. They had been separated into their groups and assigned their viruses. He could leave some of the checks to Gerald, but he needed to check out the competition winners himself – it was part of their prize to be poked and prodded by the fabulous Doctor Lowe. He may as well see them all.
Images from the weekend kept slicing into his brain: the whip; the box; the hyena audience. Pointless. The second show wouldn't go ahead, surely. He couldn't imagine existing that long. He couldn't imagine remaining in employment for that long. But he'd made enough of a fool of himself for one week. He would get on with things and think it through properly.
'OK,' Kester said to himself. His voice sounded heavy and deep. He needed something before he could think about getting started.
A slight youth from catering appeared in the doorway.
'Your coffee, Doctor Lowe,' the boy said. 'Do you want me to send someone up to look at your machine?'
'Thank you so much,' Kester said, rising like an old man and meeting the boy halfway across the room. 'No, it's fine, it's working fine I just couldn't. I need this. I really need it. Thank you.'
He followed the boy back out into the lab and shambled over to the isolation suites. Gerald saw him across the lab and stood there for a moment with a grim but encouraging smile on his face. Gerald knew when not to talk. Kester felt a sudden warmth towards his right-hand man. He didn't appreciate him enough.
'All alright, sir?' Gerald asked. 'I wasn't sure you'd be coming. How are you feeling?'
'I feel used, Gerald,' Kester replied, his honesty bringing a lump to his throat. 'Tired and used.' He made a face and groaned to try to make light of it.
'Don't worry, sir,' Gerald said, 'it'll all be over soon.' He laughed a little too gaily for Kester's liking and proceeded through the doors.
'Morning, Doctor Lowe,' said one of the models as Kester and Gerald emerged from the decon room.
'Morning,' Kester said, without registering who had spoken.
His six competition winners had turned out to be excellent choices. All six were attractive, of course, but they all seemed to be reasonably sane as well. They also represented a nice slice of society. Three from outside London, three from within; three male, three female; banker, office junior, trainee beautician, fashion student, hydroponics technician and aspiring musician. Their conversations were quite something to listen in to. They were all pleasant, all eager to be there. Hera and Cherry seemed to have managed to make them feel welcome. Probably more Cherry's doing than Hera's.
Kester took the models one by one into the anteroom to check their charts and look at the presentation of the virus. He feigned deep concentration to keep conversation to a minimum, and saved his energy for one or two broad smiles and winks at the start and end of appointments. He saw Hera and Cherry last.
Hera was acting strangely, switching between smirking at him and looking concerned. Kester ignored her questions about his weekend and got on with the business of doing his checks. If he gave her a way in to rib him about his hangover she would rip him to pieces.
Cherry was easier to engage with, though she seemed withdrawn. She wasn't slobbering to gain app
roval or battling anyone for favour. He could be hungover with her. He started by dimming the light and passing his UV tube over her skin. She looked different to the other models – because of her skin tone, more of her was glowing in the UV light. The virus concentrated in cells with higher levels of melanin, creating patterns, making cheeks, shoulders, and forearms glow with freckles and moles.
'How are you finding it,' Kester asked her, 'being back to a plain old model after your consultancy stint?'
'Me?' Cherry asked, as if there were others in the room. 'It's fine I guess. The new models have been OK. A bit gossipy. I notice the suite is extra-nice though. You'll have trouble putting Hera back in a standard one.'
Kester felt a little sad at this. The accommodation, flash and modern as it was, seemed to him cramped for six people. The communal areas were nicer than the other suites, it was true, but they still all shared a bunk room. He turned the lights back up and laid his tube aside.
'So the company's OK?' Kester smiled up from the chart he was reading, knowingly.
'It's interesting.' Cherry clocked his expression. 'No, really. It's interesting to hear about what they all do. Some more than others, perhaps. The constant meaningless sex is a bit wearing when you can hear it through the walls though, if you can believe that coming from me.' She lifted her feet and swung her legs free under the bench she was sitting on. 'How are you finding it?'
'Me?' Kester looked up. The quick movement sent a jolt of pain to his crown.
'You had your first appointments over the weekend?'
'Yes. It was…it was OK. Fine, I suppose.' Kester hurried to finish his checks. She can't have seen the news. 'Well this all looks fine.' He felt as if his smile would break him.
'I know it must be hard for you,' Cherry said, with less kindness than seemed appropriate to the phrase. Or Kester couldn't hear it properly any more. It sounded wrong when it wasn't an innuendo. 'Just…if you need to talk…'
'Thanks,' Kester was unsure what else to say. He stepped to the door and nodded to her as she left the anteroom.
Back at his desk, Kester sat slouched in his chair. He felt like a dead body propped up, eyes pinned open; a sick joke. He deconstructed his lunch well enough to convince himself he had eaten some of it, and then turned to sugar for assistance. He took a sip of coffee and put a biscuit whole into his mouth. As he chewed he flicked his intercom on and off. Eventually Gerald's voice appeared on the other end.
'Sir, is there something I can do for you?'
Kester looked at the intercom suspiciously.
'Sir, there's a click every time you switch off. And munching whenever you switch on.'
'Oh, sorry. There is something. I was just mulling it over. Could you arrange for me to speak to Cherry Woodlock alone please? Perhaps in one of the other isolation suites.'
There was a pause. 'Yes, sir. Is this a social visit?'
'I just want to talk to her, Gerald.'
'Very well, sir. They're in the middle of a briefing session with the models right now, but I'll let you know when she's ready.'
When Kester entered the isolation suite, Cherry was standing next to one of the two couches, leaning with her back against the wall.
'Hi,' Kester said, wiggling his hands in the pockets of his labcoat.
'You wanted to see me again?'
'Yes.'
'Take a seat,' Cherry said.
Kester felt suddenly undermined. She was treating this like her territory. He wavered for a moment and then indicated the couch next to her.
'After you,' he said.
Cherry sat down in the middle of the couch. Kester watched her. He could see how slender she was even through the bulk of her kimono. Its luminous white made her golden brown skin darker in contrast. Her hair was wet, combed straight back over her skull. Her whole person exuded a defensive strength.
'So,' she said, when Kester had settled opposite her, 'what did you want to talk about?'
What didn't he want to talk about? Moments flashed through his head. The Princess staring at him, disgusted; Pera Pera approaching the box, strap-on flashing; the image of the Institute on the news, rain-dark dribbles streaking down from each windowsill; Alexis, an empty promise falling from her lips; the back of Dee's head as she left the PlayPen. She didn't care about any of that. Perhaps he could pay her to care. From prostitute to model to consultant to shrink all in a few months. Not bad going.
'You asked me how I was finding it.'
'Yes.'
'I'm finding it hard – I'm not being funny. I'm finding it hard work.'
Cherry laughed.
'It worries me –'
'Keeping it up?'
'No – not just physically. Psychologically. I just feel – I don't know. You were a sex worker, right?'
'Right. People keep on reminding me. You'd think I'd fit in perfectly here. You'd think nobody would care.'
'I'm sorry they're treating you like that.'
Cherry looked down into her lap. 'It got easier for me, if that's what you're wondering. Physically, mentally, morally. That doesn't mean it will for you. And it's the same, but – it's sort of the same, but…'
'No,' Kester picked up where she'd left off. 'It's not the same is it? I've got a fabulous apartment, a great job. Everything is paid for. I don't know what I thought you could offer me. A different perspective maybe. I'm sorry – you don't want to know all about my self-pity.'
Cherry ignored his apology. 'It is different here,' she said. 'No offense, but everybody is at it all the time. I'm finding it hard to know whether people are trying to bed me because they think I'm easy or they are just acting normally – if they're like that with everybody. It's not normal to me that every conversation should hold the possibility of sex – it makes me feel like I'm being judged. But I've seen the way they operate in here. If there's a power difference, the assumption is that you're going to screw. That's probably the assumption now.'
'No.'
'But it's a possibility in the back of your mind. It must be.'
Kester dodged the point. 'It's not normal for me either – it wasn't. I suppose I'm getting used to it. I haven't been here that long and it doesn't really work like that outside the City. Some people wear in the rest of London, but it's a real subculture and it's just about being seen to be sexually active – it doesn't have the same connotations of ambition and power as it does in here.'
'But you have got used to it.'
'I can remember being really weirded out by it at first but you know, I'm a guy…a guy who didn't really get much before.' He gazed at Cherry for a moment or two. 'But isn't it a bit like that in your line of work, I mean every conversation maybe being the start of sex?'
'Only when you're getting paid. I wouldn't be a very good seeker if I had sex with anyone I spoke to. Besides, it rather numbs the appetite for recreational sex.'
'Hm.' Kester felt vaguely embarrassed. 'I think I know what you mean. But it's not – I mean normally – it's not purely recreational here.' Why was he trying to justify this to her? 'It's a power thing. You don't get anywhere if you're not seen to be virile – to have ambition. That's why people wear – to show that they are getting around enough to have caught something. And to show their vigour as well I suppose, to show that they can take it. Or that used to be why anyway. Now, with my viruses, I don't know.'
Kester looked down into his lap. It sounded a bit silly. It was silly. He didn't want to talk about it. His situation was a constant drain on his attention, filling his head like tinnitus.
'Are you going to tell me next that sleeping with you is going to further my career?' Cherry asked. 'You know I'm doing pretty well without –'
'No! That's not what I'm about at all.'
'It's not?' Cherry looked around the room as if she could see through the walls, into every room in V, as if she could see what was going on there – the viruses being developed, the couples in the exchange booths, the employees further down the chain wringing their hands over who they
needed to sleep with next to get ahead. 'You could have fooled me.'
'The truth is I'm a mess,' Kester admitted. He felt himself crack right down the middle, spill out, couldn't control it, let go. 'I've been taken in. I just – I feel like I'm giving it all away, like I'm losing it, losing everything. They're treating me like I'm just a prostitute – sorry, no offense – like a prostitute, but I'm a scientist. I was a scientist. And I…my friends. All my friends have just lost their jobs because of the first attack – I've been publicly berated by the Director of the Institute…' He glanced up at Cherry. She had a look on her face he hadn't seen for a long time. Not quite pity, more like empathy, she understood. He could tell her. 'I've got things I want to achieve. I see what the press are thinking – the press that Yule hasn't got back onside – they think this is it for me. They think I've peaked and this is me on my way down, but this was all stupid play for me. It was mostly for the money. The fame just…it was for Farrell. I won't say I wasn't starting to enjoy it…but that's not the point. This isn't what I'm here for. I've got things I want to achieve.'
'Like what?'
Kester looked up at Cherry. Her shoulders were drawn in as if she were cold. She folded her arms.
'I'm developing a new screen.' Why was he telling her this? 'A screen that anyone can use – a screen that won't make people dependent on our drugs, or destroy their immune systems. There's no complicated procedure, so it'll be affordable.'
'You can really do it? But why would the company pay you to undermine their cartel?'
'They wouldn't. They aren't. They don't know about it yet. I'm doing it on my own time, but the company – it's complicated – the market for the drugs is dwindling. The number of people who need the drugs is getting smaller and smaller as the existing population's immune systems die off, plus the drugs are going to be deregulated soon. The company needs something new. Farrell promised to take it to Chen but now…' Whenever he thought about it he felt a weight in his chest; it was the weight of future failure, of a promise he knew could only be broken. 'It was going to be our bargaining chip – it was going to get us out of this mess. Fuck, my head hurts.'
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