Moral Zero (2 page)

You oughtn’t have done it.

I know it. It is how it is.

Red and White walked on
out of earshot and at length they came to a checkpoint cutting off the street. It clustered with police, in their black uniforms and black mirrored helmets.

You done this before?

Mr White shook his head.

It’s easy. They got nothin.

They were looked at like robots handling objects but they gave their names in the booth and they were let through without further consideration. There were no niceties. They were ushered in and out and they walked away from the faceless stares, those expressionless things that seemed so alien and hostile, void of feeling. They walked away with their necks prickling into District Seven.

DISTRICT 7, HOTEL

Red took them in the first hotel they came to. It was a dive but they all were. There could be no being particular in Rule,
not unless you had the extreme coinage to swing your way. They walked up to the check in and the owner, a hag with hair like an explosion, curled a lip of boils at them as they thumbed up the money.

Sign the book.

Mr White took the pen and filled in his name and signature. He looked up. What date is it?

The woman
pointed behind her at a digital display, the numbers green and flickering like the lights of a dying bar.

He filled in the date for both of them and gave Red the pen.
Red signed his name with the flourish of a drunkard.

Two d’s in Kidd?

Yeah man. Double-D up front. He grinned widely and the woman scowled.

They came to their room,
a miserable state as was their last. They’d only booked the one. Red bounced and rolled over both the beds, calling shotgun on the bed with the least stains and the least broken mattress.

What time is it?

Red pondered. Pizza time. Then chips time. Then bar time.

Are we getting a takeaway?

Well I’m not fuckin lettin that woman bring us anythin. Spittin be the least of our troubles.

Shall we head out?

Nah man. Not yet. Place got a phone. Boom, order, boom eat, boom go out, drink. Let’s get this show on the fuckin road. Start with numero uno. I got a chasm in my stomach the size of a fuckin aircraft carrier. And half of that empty is chasin the dream of sweet alcohol. The only spirits I got a callin for.

I guess you want me to phone.

Go for it.

BAR

They had eaten the pizza and the chips, and Mr White had been amazed at how delicious they both were, cooked up from the grime and grease of the city. In cruel comparison the water out of the taps was bitter and metallic, but Mr White drank it anyway while Red drank nothing, waiting for the bar.

They had asked the woman at the front desk where the nearest bar was and she had stabbed her finger out the door. Left, she had said, her eyes like coals. They had wal
ked out and turned right and found the bar just a short way down the street. It was dirty and the windows were scarred and cracked. A sign swung loosely from a broken post outside, glittering blue neon advertising it as a BAR by no other name. Inside it smelled of sweat and spilled spirits, and the crude perfumes of the men and women. They sat at the bar or around tables or milled in groups and some of the people looked at them as they entered and some of them didn’t. The lights were low and shadows slung themselves drunkenly over breasts and stubble alike.

Mr White was sat at a
table now, waiting patiently with a beer he didn’t like for Red to come back from the bar for a second time. He sipped at it unenthusiastically, willing it to go down. After a few minutes of observing Red flirting with the treasure-chested, skeletally-clad bar girl, and tipping her heavily, he saw him turn, brandishing his purchased wares with cavalier care.

Tequila!
announced Red triumphantly as he brought a tray of shots, lemon and salt over to their table.

Tequila? Oh no
.

I got salt and lemon
too. Just what we need. Ready?

Not at all.
Mr White looked sorry for himself but picked up the first of his shots and clinked it sadly with Red’s.

Red looked Mr White in the eyes with a wicked grin and as if they shared some telepathic connection they both downed them in perfect
unison.

Red flushed and exhaled harshly, smiling fiercely while Mr White gagged.

Go on, off you run, Red said throatily, and Mr White nearly overturned his chair in his haste to reach the nearest toilet. Neither had touched the salt and lemon.

I’ll bring the rest of the shot
s to you! Red called out after him.

It wasn’t an idle threat. Red pushed open the cubicle door, left unlocked in haste, and crouched by Mr White as he retched emptily into the bowl, saliva dripping from his lips.

What . . . do . . . you want?

I brought the rest
of the shots. Red couldn’t keep the grin out of his words.

You have got to be kidding me.

I paid for em, so you got to have em. That’s the rules. And look, you ain’t even been sick. You just thought you would, but you ain’t.

I’ll be sick if I have
any more.

Well then
you’ll feel better, won’t you?

Mr White’s body told him that this was sound judgement. His mind was too clouded by alcoholic burn to think it through.

Red laid the tray out on the cubicle floor and held up a torn sachet of salt.

He
re, gimme your hand. Red took Mr White’s unresisting hand, raising it up to wipe his dripping lips.

There you go,
Red said soothingly. He lowered the hand and poured some of the salt on to it where it stuck to the spit.

Red took another shot and offered it up to Mr White, holding a lemon slice in his other hand.

Mr White took hold of the shot with his unsalted hand and stared at it dumbly.

It’s to drink, Red said helpfully. Preferably quickly.

Mr White sucked the salt, his hand and mouth acting together as if forming some rebellious coalition independent of the brain, and he downed it, quickly, clenching his teeth into the lemon a second before it fell out of his mouth as he retched again and his eyes streamed.

Quick man, this’ll take the e
dge off. Red handed him another.

Wha?

It’s water, it’ll help.

Mr White threw
it down his gullet as if it was life-saving.

It weren
’t water, it was more tequila, I’m sorry.

Mr White’s head went right into the toilet bowl.

Don’t worry, smiled Red happily, as he took a shot himself and coughed and his cheeks went red again. There’s only four more left for you.

It was twenty minutes later and miraculously Mr White had drunk two more of his shots. One more had been spilt down the toilet (Red felt this was deliberate), and the last one has been finally drunk by Red himself, after rolling his eyes at the hopelessly negative Mr White. Still, he was a little proud of the man. Or at least, he would be if he wasn’t now slightly concerned that he had now consigned Mr White to spend the rest of the night huddled by the toilet.

Real vomit was coming out now, in heaving splurts. Red peered in the bowl. Yep, that was sick alright.

That’s the spirit amigo. Red clapped Mr White on the back. Get it all out.

Unnurrgh
.

I’m surprised you can even be sick in this place. That
shit must hit you pretty hard.

Ungh
.

It’s all in your head man.

Nugh. More vomit.

Fifteen minutes later and a slightly cleaned up Mr White was back at the bar with Red.

There you go, feel bette
r? asked Red, as he beckoned the bar girl to take his order.

Yes. Thank you.

Don’t mention it. D’you want more tequila?

No.

Six beers, hot stuff. Keep the change. The bar girl rolled her eyes but took all the money and gave a wry smile.

There’s only two of us,
reminded Mr White.

Red grinned. Ah, bless.
He patted him on the back affectionately.

They were talking to a couple of girls. Or, Red was talking for the both of them and sometimes directing a question at Mr White, encouraging him to say something.

The girls were attractive and were Red’s type, meaning they were built like bombshells. They were voluptuous to the extreme. Red’s discerning, wandering eyes figured that one was enhanced, whilst absurdly the other, who was as likely to topple backwards as forwards if they hadn’t balanced her out, seemed all natural, unless it was a new strain of biological enhancement without any of the usual tell-tale signs. Small signs and differences that might be glossed over to the average body-consumer, but Red was a connoisseur of the womanly.

Red was talking about tits.

I was with this girl once, he said,
Who had tits like fuckin cannonballs. Soft cannonballs. Not a patch on you two ladies’ beautiful displays, of course. But she used to tell me that big tits, they were, like, for the pleasure of men.

They are for motherhood,
said the natural girl, furrowing her brow at him.

Red snorted. Breasts, yeah. I’m talkin
bout
tits
. You two girls and those girls on your chests, they weren’t made for none of that shit. This woman used to say, right, that huge melons were made for the purposes of the excitement of men. I’m not sayin that’s how I see it, not sayin that, but that’s just the way she saw it. She said if you kept em covered up then you weren’t fulfillin their design, or somethin. She’d pretty much shove em in my face and ask me if they were doin their job. Red laughed. The enhanced girl giggled but the natural girl looked a bit put out.

Look,
she said, and Red knew that any sentence starting with that wasn’t going to be great. We women don’t exist for the pleasure of men. That’s pretty insulting.

Red put his hands up.
Hey now, I didn’t say nothin. I’m just sayin how she called it. And she weren’t even sayin that. She was just sayin it bout a certain kind of tits, that’s all. Surely you ain’t your tits, girls? I know there’s a whole lot more to you than that. He smiled lopsidedly.

The girl wouldn’t let it go.
Our “big tits” are for us entirely. We don’t need leering men coming onto us. They are for us, right? Entirely us. Our pleasure. Yeah, even how much we want to put on show, before you come to that.

Re
d nodded at the enhanced girl. What about if you fix up your body somethin extra?

The enhanced girl blushed w
hile the natural girl scowled. Why’d you men always think we do things for you?

You always do t
he talkin for the both of you? Red turned to the silent girl and asked her what she thought. She smiled a little and said she didn’t know.

Red smile
d back and looked at Mr White. What do you think man?

Mr Wh
ite loosened his tie a little. I think, uh, that a woman’s body is hers alone. The natural girl smiled warmly at him.

Red sighed.
Y’all got it wrong. I ain’t sayin no such thing. Nor was she. She said – she said that breasts, butts, cocks, you name it – they’re these sexual objects, uh, things. They ain’t
you
. They shouldn’t be all kept up. Well, I dunno, I guess if you want that. I dunno. He shrugged. I dunno what I’m sayin. I’m drunk. I just like boobs. I just like y’all, that’s all. You look nice.

You should probably have
started out like that instead, said the enhanced girl, playing with her hair. Even the natural girl softened her expression, but had imperceptibly moved closer to Mr White.

What’s your name doll?
Red asked the enhanced girl.

Lisa.

Do you wanna drink?

Sure.
They walked off to the bar, Red looking back to wink at Mr White.

The natural girl looked at Mr White. His eyes tried to avoid glancing down at her incredible cleavage and the strain in his eyes must have shown because she sighed.

You can look if you want. Everyone else does.

I’m not everyone else. His
expression was tight.

Just look, damn you.

Mr White looked down and felt a stirring inside of him. He looked back up and smiled awkwardly. What’s your name?

Do you care?

Uh, yes.

It’s Michelle.

Nice to meet you. Um. I guess he really shot himself in the foot talking to you. Mr White managed a smile that he couldn’t make appear comfortable. He was acutely aware of his sweating forehead.