'Your binge, right. The others were talking about it. We were sort of surprised to see you this morning to be honest. I mean I don't know much about it, I haven't read the reports, but it sounds like you made things pretty clear last night.'
'I did?' A fuzzy memory lurched into view – the sea of faces at Brass. What had he said?
'But you can really make these things – we all thought it was just the vodka talking. That's great. You've got something you can go and do. You don't need to worry about all this any more.' She sounded like a mother scraping the burnt tops off a child's fairy cakes, assuring him they would taste fine.
Kester looked up. Cherry was staring at him. Her dark eyes were hard to read. She was looking straight into him, digging around, doing something.
'Never mind,' Cherry said. 'You know it seems like you've cleared up one mess by making another. Maybe you need to jump before you're pushed. Just leave. Take your stuff with you. Do it yourself.'
They sat on their separate couches. She made it sound so simple. So obvious. He let the suggestion ring true in his mind for a moment, pushing out all doubts about funding, politics, the consequences, and let his problems be solved. Cherry was beautiful, Kester reflected. An exotic fruit. Velvet flesh, rich colours, a hard core that could cross oceans unscathed. He wished he wasn't so sore, wished they weren't sitting on separate couches, wished they weren't having this conversation.
'I wish it were that easy. If it were, an old friend and I would have done it years ago.'
'An old friend? An ex-friend?'
'A reinstated friend. She was really pissed off at me when I joined the company. We didn't speak for months. It got quite nasty. But we've made up, I think.'
'Why was she so pissed off?'
'Because she thinks I'm wasting my talents working for big business.'
'That's all?'
Kester looked up at Cherry. She wasn't convinced. Her expression couldn't have been plainer.
'It was…' Kester rolled back through the year in his mind. There was Dee with golden eyes; there was Dee with bleeding eyes. 'It was more to do with the fact I infected her with one of my viruses. She didn't know about it. I mean it was a pretty one and curable. She did wear it for a while in the end, but…' It wasn't making much sense to Kester any more.
'That's what she was pissed off about? Why would she care about one little virus when everyone does it here? And why would she wear it if she hated the idea so much? That's really what she was pissed off about? I mean she was really pissed off at you.' The sudden certainty in Cherry's voice spooked Kester. She knew. She had seen into his memories. 'Wasn't she?'
Shrinks were supposed to just listen, weren't they, not question you constantly?
'Yes. She was.'
'And you stopped sleeping together then.'
'We only slept together that once, when I gave her the virus.'
This opening-up business was seeming less and less of a good idea to Kester. He felt like she was interrogating him, like she was on Dee's side. It was getting out of control.
'Right.' Cherry sounded as if she had sussed him out, but he wasn't sure what there was to suss. 'Why were you wearing a virus anyway?' More questions. 'I thought the famous Doctor Lowe didn't wear.'
'No.'
She was accusing him of something. The room was drifting out of focus. He had been wearing the virus for Farrell. A gift for Farrell. There was Dee's face in his memory again: black and white, blood in her eyes, red flushes on her cheeks, stylised, a picture from a graphic novel. Her mouth was moving in slow motion – you slept with her.
'Whatever.' Cherry's voice brought him back to the room. 'It's none of my business.'
Kester felt heavy. He didn't need all this brought back to him now. Dee's rage had nothing to do with his present avalanche of woes. But as its white roar tumbled closer, threatening to engulf him, he thought he could see a little girl at the top of the mountain, smiling, her tiny hands freshly sprung apart from a single clap. No. He wouldn't feel guilty any more. They had come past that. They had made up.
'We made up.'
'You said that. You surprise me.'
'Why are you here?' Kester asked. He needed respite from her questioning, to hear her talk for a while, to hear about something other than his own mess. 'How did you end up working for us?'
Cherry frowned briefly. Her expression hardly changed, but the shadows on her face seemed to deepen.
'Why am I here?' She stared, unblinking. 'I was a sex worker…and I got the chance to come and work as a model. Isn't it obvious why I'm here?'
'You wanted to get out? Or to get in? To get into the City, I mean.'
Kester looked at her encouragingly as she sorted her thoughts.
'If you're a high-flying banker, or a lawyer, or even a scientist,' she indicated him, 'you can get a pass to come and live and work in the City. I could never have got back in – there's no head-hunting for Britain's top prostitutes. At least until now.' She gave a short laugh. 'You hardly need them in here. Those who want sex have each other, or the Pigs or whatever.'
'Back in? You lived here before?'
'When I was a child. It's complicated.'
'But why do you want to be in here? I mean it's perfectly nice outside the City, outside London.'
Cherry raised her eyebrows.
'My mother lives outside,' Kester said. 'I grew up outside. I know there are the less salubrious areas, but mostly it's just the same. Maybe not the same as the City. But you know, not that different from London. It's not like we've got all the candy hoarded up in here. You could have got a modelling job outside.'
'You flatter me. No. It had to be here.' She paused for a moment. She was a lid teetering on the balance of its hinges; any second she would fall open, or fall shut. 'My mother was tried and convicted in here on terrorism charges. I can't find out the truth about what she did from out there, what happened in the trial, anything. I was placed by a dodgy foster agency into the hands of a madam when she was convicted – if she even was convicted. I have a few things I'd like to sort out.'
'Right.' Kester felt a blush rising to his cheeks. 'I see. Yes, I can see how you might want to…you really can't find out about her from outside?'
'Look, the one thing I know is that I didn't do anything wrong, so there's no reason that I should have been got rid of in the manner I was. I've tried to find out the whole story through the archives, but it's impossible. The coverage just fizzles out. It doesn't even give way to conspiracy theories – it just stops, like nobody cared. I need to get into the official court records and I can only do that here in the City.' Cherry sighed and dropped her forehead into her hand for a moment, before looking back up. 'Doctor Lowe, it may look dodgy me being here, but even if I wanted to follow in my mother's footsteps I wouldn't know where to start.'
'Cherry – I didn't mean that. Nobody thinks that. Not at all. I just…'
Just what? Kester thought for a moment. He needed to get back to his desk before he was sick. He stood up and his hangover lurched. His whole body was scrambled. He felt weak. But he could do something good here maybe, though it was just a small thing. Cherry stood up in response and Kester found himself standing too close to her.
'You know if there's any way I can help,' he said. 'Alexis knows people at the Population Monitor and the records office too. Perhaps I could set something up after the show. If there is a show.'
Cherry looked as if she was puzzling through something.
'OK. Thanks,' she said. She put out a hand to touch him on the arm. 'Thank you. That's really good of you.'
Before his mind could stop it, Kester's body had replied to her touch in the way it had become accustomed, sending his shaking hand to her waist.
'That's OK.' He stiffened, aware that the gesture was not what it should be, an acknowledgement of her thanks.
'Are we going to?' Cherry screwed up her face.
'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to – it's just automatic.'
'
Yes.' Cherry let out a breathy laugh. 'After all, who would pay who?'
Kester walked to the doors, then turned and attempted a smile. 'Thank you,' he said.
Kester returned to his office and slouched down into his desk chair. How could it still be Monday? He picked up his Book. It was only two o'clock. His hands were shaking. He needed it to be bedtime. He groaned as he noticed the message icon.
'Kester…darling,' Kester sat staring at his Book as the message played. His mother sounded as if she was struggling to call him darling. 'Son, I just wanted to call to say.' Her voice was breaking. 'I just wanted to say that I've seen all the news stories. I've seen…' She gave a small sob. 'Sorry, I've seen the pictures. I just wanted to. I'm…'
Her voice trailed off for a moment into thick snuffly silence. Kester's sore brain filled in the words: appalled, disgusted, hurt, embarrassed, inconsolable.
'I wanted to tell you I'm not angry, I just…'
Another pause: hate you, can't believe you did those things, can't believe you did that to your friends.
'I'm just a little surprised, Kester. I know…'
Tears welled up in Kester's eyes, making the room wobble. He let them settle there and fatten, staring, unblinking.
'…I know you're having a hard time of it. I just…' Another snuffle released a torrent of words. '…I just wanted you to know that I love you and I don't care what silly things you've done – I don't want you to worry about me, I just want you to be OK and just talk to me or talk to one of your friends or…just, I am proud of you, darling. It was so brave of you to make that speech, never mind that you were drunk. It was true, everything you said and if they won't make your screens, then I'm sure there's someone who will. And if you need somewhere to stay you know you can always come home. It'll all be right.' The dog barked in the background, calling out an involuntary teary laugh. The message ended there.
Kester's mind was full of holes. That guilty feeling was back. He put a hand to his head. Why would his mother be proud of him for some drunken speech? What made her bring up his screens again? He needed to find out what he'd said. Cringing, he picked up his Book. Fortunately, some kind soul had filmed the entire thing and it was available on every site imaginable.
As Kester listened back to his speech, punctuated with gulps and drunken roars from his audience, the pieces of his guilty puzzle fell into place.
…that those bastards at Stark don't want you to have screens that work properly. They want to keep you dependent on their stupid technodge…technology. Stupid – that's right – stupid. They think they can sweep aside millions of years of evolution and there not be a comeback. Darwin would…Darwin's fucking rolling in his grave right now, poor bastard. Stupid – we're chucking it all away, all our defences and you know what? If this thing fails, if it really fails we're all fucked. All of us. And the really stupid thing is it doesn't even need to be that way. I mean come ON! You can make screens that work fine with the body. You can do it. It can be done – I've done it. That's right – yeeees! I've made them and I'm going to make sure everyone can have one. Not just you City fuckers either – everyone – EVERYONE! Everyone and their dogs too. That's right Mum, if you're out there, their dogs too…
Kester was shivering. He felt light, empty, like he might pop. He watched the grainy image of himself, standing at an angle on the bar, clutching a bottle as he went on to denounce V and Stark Wellbury's cartel and went into a long nostalgic monologue about the Golden Age of science. Enough.
The smile Gerald had given him. It was a 'what are you doing here' smile. The looks the models had been giving him, the surprised 'hello's from his lab staff, it all made sense. When Gerald had said it would 'all be over soon'…
Kester glanced over towards his apartment and saw Alexis' birthday present, a six foot by four foot elastoplast, wrapped in brown paper, still sitting waiting to be stuck on. There was no apologising for this. His eye flicked up and across the grid of model portraits that catalogued the viral presentations. There was Cherry. The look on her face was defiance, rebellion, focused anger. Jump before you're pushed. He picked up his Book and tapped it on the bed a few times, then called John.
With John on his way, Kester took his Book over to his bar and got started organising things. When the door buzzer went he was all set.
'It's not your fault, man,' John said, stepping through Kester's doorway and punching him on the top of the arm. His smile was hard. 'I liked your speech by the way. Thanks for the honourable mention.'
'OK, this is what I've got,' Kester said, turning his attention to the bar. Phase one of his plan. He started to name the drinks he had lined up, filling the surface, four bottles deep. 'Vodka, cider, Quicksilver, dark rum, white rum –'
'Kester, what are we doing here? Killing ourselves?'
Kester's mind flashed to the shelf at the top of the building, to his tiny body falling, labcoat wound around him, tumbled by the air, plummeting like a wounded chick. He shook his head rapidly to dispel the unpleasant thrill.
'Enjoying it while it lasts,' Kester said, watching for a reaction. 'And don't worry – we don't have to finish it all, we're just doing a tasting.'
John shrugged. Kester grabbed him by the arm and dragged him through to his desk.
'Tah dah!'
Kester surveyed the catering display. Crazed automatons – they had sent up everything he had asked for and stacked it high as instructed: roast suckling pig, beef, chicken, turkey, tongue, trotter, kebabs, soup, mousses, cake, broccoli, trifle, crackers, a vat of dhal, fresh halved coconuts, boiled potatoes, mashed potatoes, roast potatoes, a cheese board so large it looked like a scale model of a town.
'Man,' John said, his voice full of awe, and he walked slowly around the table. 'International buffet.' He dipped his finger in a silver bowl of humous and licked it clean. 'You've really lost it, man.'
Kester looked at him, forced a smile and nodded. He couldn't do this alone. It would be no fun at all.
'Let's get stuck in,' John said, finally, with a tentative laugh.
Kester whooped and ran through to the bar. He grabbed at the first bottle he saw. It was a blue liqueur he didn't recognise. He poured two shots and ran back through, crying out as it sloshed out onto his hands.
'OK!' he said. 'What goes with blue?'
Chapter 22
Kester didn't hear the doors to his office open. The music was too loud. He didn't see them open. He was wearing a large silver cloche as a hat. He felt a sudden ringing. The lid was a bell and he was the clapper. John had bashed him on the head.
Kester lashed out with his French stick, hitting John in the stomach, and then watched as John's feet staggered about the table in front of him, demolishing whole platters of food. One of John's feet jammed in a chicken carcass. He continued stamping around a bit, coating the chicken in broken meringue and gravy, then he turned and collapsed, his face appearing on the table between Kester's feet.
'Kester!'
Kester could see that John was shouting to him. The music cut off mid-verse.
'Kester!'
'What?' Kester shouted back to the quiet room.
'Kester!' John rolled from side to side, then started to waggle his arms up and down, making a food angel in the mess of the table.
'What?' Kester laughed.
'There's someone at the door!'
'What?'
Kester jumped. He spun around, feet slipping in the food, and lifted the cloche up over his eyes. Panic drained his drunkenness for a moment and he stopped moving. Everything was silent. Kester was out of body, hovering above the tableau: himself standing in the middle of his desk in his labcoat and pants, peeking out from under his polished hat, smothered in food, a limp French loaf hanging from one hand; John lying at his feet, still flapping his arms, shunting piles of destroyed food onto the floor; the sea of opened, tasted and discarded bottles, and the slick of brown muddied drink that covered the floor around them.
Alexis was standing in the doorway with
Chen at her side, beyond them, a lab full of staring eyes, open mouths, an audience of surprised sex-dolls. They all stood frozen. Kester responded in kind and stayed still, as if he might be able to stop time until he thought of a clever way out. It was all very bright, like leaving the cinema in daytime.
'Doctor Lowe,' the chirpy voice of the wardrobe assistant rang out. She was looking down at her clipboard as she drew level with the doors. 'I hope we were quick enough. We pulled out all the stops and…' her voice trailed off as she looked up.
'Saffron, thanks. Excellent work!' Kester said, standing up straight and brushing off his labcoat. 'Just leave them there would you?'
'Em, yes, sir.' The assistant smothered a giggle with her hand, tried her best to nod deferentially to Farrell and Chen, then waved at her helpers to hurry up. The racks of pre-unpicked clothes kept coming until there were eight lined up behind Farrell and Chen, at which point Saffron bowed politely and herded her helpers back to the lift.
Kester looked down behind him. John was asleep or passed out. What would John do? Brazen it out.
'I know what you're thinking.' Kester walked to the front edge of his desk. He went to remove his hat, then changed his mind and left it propped back on his forehead. Don't defer to them. Your office; your rules. 'I know what you're –'
'I doubt you do, Doctor Lowe,' Chen said.
Kester tried to read them. Chen looked astounded. She hadn't decided to believe it yet. Kester remembered his old head teacher opening the door on their unattended art class. The look on Alexis' face was changing. She might almost have been impressed, but it was a dark sort of impressed; the sort of impressed you might be as you looked over the edge of a landmark cliff before sliding a body off its lip. He waited for a moment longer. If they wanted to, they could walk away now and pretend they had never seen it. He gave them the opportunity – it was only fair.
They didn't take their chance. Kester took a deep breath and felt a sudden lightness. He wouldn't be pushed. Stick to the plan. So this hadn't technically been part of the plan, but he needed to think on his feet. He would skip to the end.
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