Sequela (39 page)

Beep
. The light from his Book shone through the fabric of his jacket, dissolving the illusion. He left it in his pocket, but its rectangle of light had opened a portal for everything else to come rushing back in.

Kester's head was beginning to hurt. He had drunk too much, not enough. He closed his eyes. Dee had forgiven him, then, but something wasn't quite right. This wasn't the sort of forgiveness he needed. Things were complicated again, still. There was Farrell. The thought of her brought a gush of defiance.

'My screens are working,' he said, half to himself, a consolation.

'Screens?' Dee's voice came. He was not alone, was not on his bed with his eyes shut. He wished it was Alexis by his side and not Dee. She didn't fit.

'John told you about them?' Kester asked.

'No.' It was a small no, scared of itself.

'Viral screens. No drugs. Like we always talked about. It works. They work. I'm torso testing them now.' His answer was tired. He couldn't be bothered explaining more. It was the wrong time.

'The company –'

'I've done it in my own time.
I
did it.'

For a long time, Dee didn't reply. The dark was shaking.

'Kester, that's…' She had moved, was sitting up. 'That's amazing.'

She was upset. Kester closed his eyes. What had he done now? She was pissed off because they were supposed to have built the screens together. Or maybe it was too soon. He breathed slowly for a few minutes. He wished again he was in his own bed, was close to his shower.

Beep
.

Swearing, Kester sat up and took his Book out.

I'm in your office. Where are you? You'll want to hear this.

'Fuck,' Kester said. She had done it. She'd talked to Chen.

'Work?'

'Yeah, look…'

Kester wasn't sure how to continue. He felt he had just walked into his apartment to find it had been burgled. Everything was inside out, upside down. The mess went on beyond his field of vision and was just starting to come into focus.

'I know, Kester. I'm busy too. I think maybe we should just – I don't know. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. Maybe I could see you after the show. Sober. As friends.'

Kester searched around for the controller and flicked the lights on to a low grey, an overcast sunrise. Dee was already dressed and sitting on the edge of the platform.

'You know what…' Kester said, shrugging and shaking his head. 'Yeah. I guess.' He stood up and started to pull his clothes on. 'I'll walk you to the tube.'

'It's OK.'

He watched as Dee padded to the glass staircase that descended through the floor to the lift. She tiptoed down it, as if trying not to disturb someone.

-o-

Alexis was in Kester's office when he got back. Still in his office? In his office again? He wasn't sure. He watched her from his living quarters and paced back and forth for a few minutes, then he took his jacket off and stood still. He must stop sweating, must be sober. His head was still throbbing and he felt a lingering drunken ineptitude. He went into the bathroom, did his teeth and put on some deodorant. He would want to hear this, she had said. It must be Chen. She must have spoken to Chen. There was nothing else he wanted to hear right now.

'Alexis,' he said as he entered his office, still a little out of breath, 'I got your message – sorry about that, I was at the PlayPen. You were right, I had too much time on my hands, had to get out.'

Alexis surveyed him, eyes narrow, judging perhaps whether he looked like he had been at the PlayPen.

'What did you want to tell me?' he asked.

'I thought you'd like to know.' She looked less excited than Kester had hoped. Maybe it was bad news. 'We've confirmed your Saturday night appointment. It's Pera Pera.'

'What? Oh.'

'Pera Pera – Latin raptress superstar?'

'Yes. I know who you mean.'

'Then what? She's not big enough for you?'

'Yeah, sure. Just, you know…did I have to be here to hear this?' Kester threw himself down on the couch and flicked on his display.

'I thought you might want to celebrate.' The suggestion would normally have come with a slathering of sleaze. Now it came as an accusation.

'OK, watch me – woo-hoo! Well done. Pera Pera. She's a pretty big deal.' Kester kept his eyes on the display, flicking channels. 'And for you – is she worth sharing me with? Is she rich and famous enough for your super-elite shag club?'

Alexis came closer. Kester glanced up in time to catch her nostrils flaring a little, an involuntary tightening of the muscles beneath her eyes.

'Are you drunk?' she asked.

'Yes.' Kester shrugged. 'A bit.'

Alexis took a deep breath and gave him a reproachful look.

'She meets my standards just fine, Kester. I had hoped I might make this as painless as possible for you. For both of us.' She paused. 'And don't get pissy with me. I've organised a meeting with Chen for Monday, if that's what you wanted to hear.'

Kester jerked his head up, unable to contain his shock. Was it really happening? Relaxing again, he became suspicious; she had organised a meeting, hadn't actually spoken to Chen. He needn't feel guilty just yet.

'You just need to show willing for the weekend's appointments. Make it clear that you'll hold up your end if she agrees. We need Chen in the best mood possible. Agreed? I don't want her to feel she's being blackmailed.'

'Agreed.' Kester couldn't argue there.

'Were you really at the PlayPen?' Alexis asked, eyes narrowing again.

'Yes.'

'Not out on the shag somewhere?'

'No.'

'Who were you with?'

'Dee.' There was no reason to hide it from her. 'From the department.'

Alexis sneered a little and stepped back from him. 'The bitch who threw wine on you? You made up then?'

'Sort of.'

'Good. The fewer enemies you have right now the better. Give her a ticket to the show if she wants one. Give her two. And you're free to take your friends to the PlayPen, but don't go there drunk again. You know we're liable to lose our company licence.'

'They didn't seem to care,' Kester said, laughing a little. He relaxed for a moment, long enough for the drink to talk. 'It's me, Doctor Kester Lowe.'

'Sober up, Kester.' Alexis turned and walked to the door. 

Cherry banged a fist on the wall above her desk. She had a new
neighbour
at Dempsey's who liked to listen to banging ratchet techno at breakfast to get himself keyed up for the day. The noise lowered. It would be back to the same level or higher within a few minutes – he seemed to think he might be able to sneak it up on her without her noticing – but any respite was better than none. She would ask Gerald if it was alright to stay in the lab for a few nights if it got too much. Some of the suites were empty and he would be a gentleman about it. Her second pay was through and her funds were starting to build up, so she could start to look for somewhere decent to stay soon.

She unfolded the sheet of instructions that Dee had included in the shoebox and flattened them out on her desk. They were printed with a hand-scrawled note at the bottom. They were mostly to the point, but here and there Dee's snide tone crept in enough to get Cherry's hackles up.

Lay off it until four days before the show, then put on the virus and infect whoever you like – the more the merrier as far as I'm concerned. I'm sure your employer would agree.

Once the virus has worked, not normally before six days or so, the control virus will kick in and female subjects may start to experience symptoms – you don't want this happening before the models get their chance to spread it to the clients and you don't want the symptoms presenting until after the show and after you're clear of infection so it can't be traced.

When you're done, use your control virus – remember you have to use this after your four days are up or you risk damaging yourself.

I've included some eyedrops that will control the weeping should you be lucky enough to experience it.

Cherry looked in the shoebox again. The viral applicator was like a long fat syringe. The hand-written postscript assured her that this was the best way to establish an infection quickly and at the necessary levels. Though it made some sense, she felt Dee might be having a laugh on her. She clenched her pelvic floor involuntarily and shuddered. It was all a bit farmyard for her liking.

She unclipped the lid of the envirobox. The liquid inside the vial looked innocuous enough. She imagined injecting herself, imagined a scuttling army of microscopic snapping mouths making its way into her reproductive system and chowing down. Putting a hand to her stomach, she closed the envirobox lid and put it back in the shoebox.

Her Book beeped. It was Gerald passing on an order from Farrell to go and see Doctor Lowe about "maximum spread". She assumed he meant the consultancy work she had been doing on boosting infection rates amongst clients.
Two pm OK?
she messaged back,
I'm at home
. He hadn't said anything about having to do it today, but it was a good reason to go back to the office and escape the encroaching techno.

Cherry rummaged in her rucksack. There was something she had meant to take with her last time and had forgotten. When she found it she would remember what it was. As she rooted in the various pockets, a folded piece of paper came to hand. Was this it? No, it was a flyer for Tim's show. She didn't remember packing it; he must have sneaked it in there in the hope of persuading her to tell some people about the show. A sick feeling started to creep up from her stomach until she noticed the dates – the first week-long show had passed, but the second was opening tonight. She could still make it. Rooting again with renewed
vigour
, Cherry found what she had been looking for – lip balm. Was that it? How mundane. Still, it did annoy her when she didn't have any. She tucked it in her pocket, shoved the rucksack back under her bed and pulled on her coat.

-o-

'I should warn you that while I respect your input and everything…' Kester started to explain himself then looked up at Cherry and tailed off.

'I know,' Cherry said. 'Farrell set it up. Don't worry – I'll tell you enough to cover you if she asks. I've done you a crib sheet.'

'Oh.'

Kester sounded surprised that she was so organised. Cherry was unsure whether to be offended or pleased.

'I want to get away sharp anyway.'

'Hot date?' Kester grinned.

'A friend's gallery opening. I say opening – the show was already on for one week a couple of months ago, so it's a reopening really. Still, free champagne is free champagne, right?'

'Right.' Kester chuckled. 'Wish I was coming with you.'

He sighed and looked up at the wall of reports beside him. Cherry wavered on the spot for a moment. She was supposed to be getting close to him, found herself wanting to get close to him.

'You could come if you wanted to,' she said, trying to strike a balance between encouragement and nonchalance.

Kester looked her in the eye. He seemed so clean. It was nice to look at a face that didn't have either expressed symptoms or their remnants. She held his gaze and raised her eyebrows. His shoulders fell and he glanced guiltily back up at the board.

'I really wish I could. But I've got actual important science stuff to do that I won't be able to finish off once I'm out on the meat cart servicing our clients. Apart from anything else it's Alexis' birthday on Sunday and I haven't got her anything – this would have been a good opportunity. Her apartment is as bare as a prison cell.' He stared up at the ceiling for a moment. 'What sort of stuff does your friend paint?'

Cherry dug in her pocket and took out the flyer.

'There's not anything of his on here. But this is how the show is billed.'

'Near past and near future? Interesting. Maybe you could send me some pictures if there's anything you think she'd like.'

Cherry gave an involuntary laugh. The idea that she might know what Alexis Farrell would like was farfetched. They were both women, but as far as Cherry was concerned that was where the similarities ended.

'Point taken,' Kester said. 'I'm thinking something dramatic – something fiery, dark, but not too…you know.' He shrugged his shoulders and gave a clueless smirk. 'Just if you see anything.'

'Actually, I think I have just the thing in mind. I'll send you a picture.' Cherry pulled up a chair and sat opposite Kester. 'Now, let's go through this briefing sheet.'

-o-

John was late arriving at the bar. Kester ordered lunch for them both, then sat in the booth and fiddled with his Book. He looked again at the painting Cherry had found for him at her friend's show. It was perfect: London enclosed in a ring of fire, the riots that created London as they knew it, Alexis' London. Not just a birthday gift, he thought, a gift to assuage his guilt. He shouldn't doubt her. She said she had arranged the meeting. Though he was more comfortable doubting her somehow. He didn't want to jinx things by assuming the best.

Yawning, he rubbed his forehead. He had finished everything he needed to last night and early this morning, and now it was time to face up to his next task. He switched to calendar and flipped through his appointments. Friday night was the auction winner, Saturday Pera Pera, then during the week Tamsin Holloway, oil tycoon's daughter and professional vacuous zombie, and fat cat Basil Black. Kester shuddered. It wasn't a thing, he told himself. So he was a big guy. Not a thing. He just hadn't got round to swinging in that direction completely and it would have been nice to lose his other virginity with someone attractive. Was that shallow? He imagined Basil Black. He was sitting somewhere eating ribs with his bare hands, grease dribbling down his chin.

Kester started flicking faster and faster through his calendar, through days and days, well past any appointments, past the end of this year, the next year, on and on.

'Kester!'

Finally, John. Kester got up, smiled and hugged him.

'You alright, mate?' John said. 'You're crushing my ribs.'

'Not really.' Kester released his hold and sat back down. 'I start my new career as a high-class hooker tonight.'

'Really? Wait 'til Dee hears. Now there's selling out and there's selling out. Still, at least you haven't sold your soul.'

'You know I don't believe in the soul.' Kester took a sip of his drink and frowned. 'So how are things at the Institute? I hear they're still investigating the department – as if the virus could have come from there. You don't even keep live samples.'

'That's it really,' John said. 'It's dragging on, you know. They'll be out of our hair soon. And you know, gardening leave in September – shouldn't complain really. Word is they know it's come from them. They're tearing themselves apart with an internal investigation but I guess they need it to look like it was us.'

'Yeah,' Kester tried to sound like he cared. He knew he had failed, but there was no recovering it. 'Sorry, John. I do care.'

John looked at Kester's glass, went to the bar and returned with two more of the same.

'So tell me about it. Why the article rejection face. Who's your first client?
Someone loathsome?'

'I don't know yet – whoever wins the auction. It's all happening behind closed doors and dark glasses. I won't know until I get there. Same time as the press. Not that they don't trust me. Then tomorrow night it's Pera Pera.'

'What?' John spilled a bit of his pint. 'Pera Pera? Are you fucking kidding me? I'll spot for you. Seriously, what's wrong with you? Then who?'

'Then Tamsin Holloway, then Basil Black.'

'Hold on. Black Senior or Junior? Junior I presume? Betta's going to explode with jealousy if it's BB Junior. Christ man, I know you don't normally take pickle but –'

'Junior?' Kester looked up.

'What's wrong with you, man? Don't you follow the gossip any more?'

'I'm kind of busy.'

'Black – just look him up will you. I want your job. You know you need to make the most of all this while it's yours.'

'You know if I could let you spot for me I'd be glad to,' Kester said, idly searching on Basil Black. A picture of a handsome, sleek young man appeared. He had the bone structure, and in a couple of cover shots the wardrobe, of a seventeenth-century poet.

'How's your sexy boss?' John asked, trying to change the subject. 'Are you going to bring her to our next little gathering? I hope you do.'

'I hope so too. She's promised to take the screens to Chen.' Saying it out loud, Kester was shocked by the lack of conviction in his voice.

'She will,' John said.

Kester looked up at him. It was nice of him to say, but why would he say it at all if he didn't doubt it?

'If she does, when she does, would you come and work for us?' Kester asked. He may as well cheer himself up.

'Magic! Of course I would. We all would. It'd be just like old times!' An apologetic look swept across his features. 'Well, it might not be
just
like old times without Dee.'

'You know I think even Dee might be up for it. Making the screens was her dream, our dream, so why wouldn't she be? I think she would.'

'If she didn't still want to chop your balls off.'

'What? Is she mad again? Christ, I knew something –'

'Mad again?' John leaned in, confused. 'No, I just assumed she was still building her Kester Lowe Death Machine.'

'You haven't spoken to her? We made up.'

'You made up?'

'Sort of. She came to see me.'

'You didn't do anything stupid did you?'

'No,' Kester replied too quickly. He wasn't going to admit to sleeping with her, but he had to give John something. 'We got drunk and I took her to the PlayPen.'

John sat back in his seat, shaking his head.

'At least you didn't, you know…'

John was waiting for him to admit it. He wasn't going to.

'Yeah,' Kester said, staring into his glass. 'I just get this feeling.'

'What feeling?'

Kester took a long slurp of his beer and stared up at the display on the back wall of the bar. There was a show update running. The camera was on a window on the top floor of the V building where the auction was about to take place.