by Geoff Ryman
That was enough to make Ebru stop and turn around. 'Oh that is a good idea,' she said, without any tonal variation in her voice.
'Well, they're such beautiful little things, and we've got a lot of data and it just seems such a shame
Oh God, oh no. He could feel his face. It was crumpling at the corners of his mouth, and his cheek was twitching up towards his eyes. He was starting to cry, and he had no real idea why.
It is a very strange sensation to break down in public and for that public to stare back at you stonily, completely unmoved by anything like sympathy. Cry, you bastard, their eyes seemed to say. Cry for your little project.
'We could just let them go, in the park?' He was begging.
Ebru said, 'That is illegal.'
'It'll be an illegal little party.' Michael bounced in his seat, trying to communicate that it would be naughty and fun.
'It's stupid, they'll die, it isn't even kind,' said Ebru and turned and walked out. Shafiq shuffled away. Hugh said, 'I'll get going on the photographs.' Emilio said, smiling but with a direct gaze, 'Whatever you're on, Michael. Stop taking it.'
They processed the chicks without even telling Michael they were doing it. They did it very quickly, and neatly. Michael went into the photography room. Hugh was photographing as before, but Ebru was staining samples.
'Those are fresh,' said Michael.
'We have to do it while they're young, Michael. Otherwise they will be too mature to compare with the other samples.'
'I asked you not to do that.'
'When?' Ebru turned and her gaze challenged him, challenged his right to give any orders at all. 'When did you ask me not to, Michael? We discussed your idea about setting them free and decided it was wrong. And we decided that it was stupid to waste them, and so we follow proper procedure.' Her hand made an involuntary little wave, sweeping him away. 'We will do everything in order, Michael. You don't have to do a thing.'
'I'm very unhappy you did that.'
Ebru held out her hands in something like helplessness. I am helpless to help you, Michael. I am helpless to say anything other than that your unhappiness makes no difference.
Michael had nothing else to do, so he typed all the official notices of non-renewal. He went over the accounts and planned the new expenditure. That is the kind of thing a good little boy does when admonished. There is no coming back from being justly admonished by your staff, and then being defied by them.
He worked alone in his office, deliberately until late. No one popped in to say good night, see you tomorrow. At 8.30 pm he did a round of the lab, turning out a few lights. In the reception box, the night guard was pleased to see him. He was a Londoner, ex-Cockney, a vanishing breed. 'Hello, sir,' he said, perking up. 'I haven't seen you this late in ages. How are you, sir?' He sounded genuinely pleased to see Michael.
'I decided to give up all that staying late.'
'Oh, very wise, sir, very wise. My wife says the same about me at my age. But the money's good, and between you and me, it gets me out from under her feet.'
It was terrible to be treated with friendliness and respect.
The leaves had begun to fall in Archbishop's Park, and they had blown across the street, crunching underfoot. Walking back to Waterloo seemed to take forever; he shuffled with dreamlike slowness. He'd fucked it. He had well and truly fucked it. He stood stricken on the platform at Waterloo, wanting to hide.
He walked back to his old flat near Goodge Street on automatic pilot. He got all the way to looking up at his old window, and seeing his ceiling illuminated through it and a moving shadow, he thought oh good, Phil's home.
Then he realized no, he's not. No one is at home. Home is over, home is gone. My animal brain just walked me back here.
His animal heart stood outside the building yearning upwards at the light on the old ceiling. I want my job back, my beautiful project. I want my partner, my flat, my peace of mind. I want my old life back.
Too late, Michael, you're not going to get it.
The idea of walking back to Goodge Street tube, and going all the way to Camden, made him close his eyes with fatigue. He wondered if he could just ask the Miazgas to let him back in, for ten minutes' snooze. He just wanted to clear his head. But he would have to explain to them, and worry them, and involve them again in his life.
So he turned, dazed as if on painkillers, and dragged his way back to Goodge Street station. Everything around him – the Eisenhower Security Center, the cenotaph in front of it – was like reassuring old friends seen after a divorce. There was the Reject Shop… no, it wasn't. It was now something called Cargo. Change swept over everything like a tide; turn your back and it's as over as the First World War.
Michael tried to find the flower. The flower was whatever he had touched when Luis had left him. The joy in the world, in himself. I have seen it. It was real. It can come when things go wrong.
It's strongest when you have been brave and strong – not when you've fucked up, messed everyone over, lost it. Not when you've thrown your life out of the window.
There was now a porn shop on Tottenham Court Road.
Well there would be; they had been moving north out of Soho for some time, as real estate got too valuable even for the sex industry, and only cappuccino, it seemed, could turn a penny, or rather, enough pennies. GAZE the WORD the shop called itself. There were ribbons of coloured plastic across the door. There always were, in porn shops. Like ketchup bottles always looking the same.
'Well hello, Professor,' said a voice.
Someone was standing in the doorway. Michael blinked; it took him a moment to recognize who it was.
The guard from Goodge Street station. He was wearing a fancy T-shirt, the kind you're not supposed to tuck in, and the same blue security trousers that made his legs and butt look somehow bolshy.
'Have a look round, don't be shy,' the Guard said. He looked chunkier. Perhaps he had been working out, but his mouth still habitually sneered. He held apart the plastic strips as if opening a dressing gown.
'Come on. I'm sure I've got something for you.' He emphasized 'you', as if he knew and understood Michael.
Michael had no direction, no reason to do anything else, so he went inside. It was bright like Christmas, full of colour.
'I expect you're surprised to see me here,' said the Guard. 'I suppose you could say I found my metier.' He grinned cheekily. 'Here, have a look at these.'
He handed Michael video boxes covered with coloured computer printout. The images were of naked men.
'I get these from round the world,' he said. He dipped down behind the counter, and pulled out a folder. He opened it up, to show clear wallets full of more laser-printed images.
Rancho Rauncho, one of them boasted. Starring Spike Harden and Mustapha Most.
'American,' he said proudly. 'Uncensored. You won't find this sort of stuff for sale anywhere else in the West End. Not at these prices. Beautiful stuff.'
Michael noticed: he's wearing a wedding ring.
'Look at this. Now this is the guvnor… Max Schnarr. He goes all round the world: Russia, Eastern Europe, Quebec, all sorts of strange places. Picks up all the best-looking men himself, and they're so besotted with him that they let him make a film. He's in ' em himself. This one's from Venezuela.'
Michael stared, bored beyond description, bored into some netherworld where nothing you said made any difference.
'Hold on.' The Guard leaned forward. 'I've got some really special stuff, if this kind of thing is too tame. Red, yellow, brown.' He leaned back, and waited.
'What do your mates next door think of this?' Michael asked. Goodge Street station was three doors down.
'That lot? I just tell ' em what I'm making these days. It beats working for London Underground, I can tell you.'
'You're not gay,' said Michael.
'Doesn't mean to say I don't like pleasing men.' The Guard gave a wobble of his eyebrows, and something queasy washed off him. It was attraction, but attract
ion as if it were music played backwards. It was revulsion so strong that it mimicked attraction.
'Listen, you're not in this line of work, I'll tell you how I do it?' His blanched skin and blue blank eyes shone. He wanted the Professor to understand that he was not some stupid oik. 'You can buy this stuff with copyright off the Internet. You just pay a one-off fee. It's expensive, but it comes with all rights, and you download it at three am when the lines are clear. And, it's lovely quality, MPEG 2 compression. You can transfer it to DVD or video. The punters could do the same, but it would take them forty-five minutes to download, and they're bound to lose the line halfway through. I got in a leased line, that costs, I can tell you, but I got a thriving mail-order business. In fact, I had that before I opened the shop. I want to become the main source for gay porn in the entire UK.'
Michael started to look through the files.
'I tell you some of this stuff is really strong. I mean, under-the-counter even in America. You've seen nothing like it, mate.' The Underground Guard leaned forward. 'Come on, tell me what you're into.' Michael could feel his breath on his cheek: he could smell it. Mint on mint; there was a Polo circling his mouth even now. It clicked every time he spoke. 'I've got it for you, or I can get it. Come on, you can tell me.'
Latin Manhattan. Ghost with the Most. A Lad In with His Wonderful Lamp.
Michael remembered Phil in his porn phase. 'They cost fifty thousand dollars to make and return two hundred and fifty. Do it six times and you're a dollar millionaire.'
The Guard was pleased. 'You know how it works then. I mean, I'm looking for an Angel.'
Michael looked up. 'What?'
'Angel. You know. Theatrical investor. To put up the money. I'm trying to make a video of my own. Because I mean you're absolutely right, the money gets made in production. It's not like that for any other part of the film industry. For regular films it's distribution, but with this stuff it's all under-the-counter, which is too expensive and slow, or on the Net, which frankly is too cheap. You're giving the stuff away on the Net, which is why it's available on one-off. I'd love to turn it around and sell distribution back to the States. Hey. The British are coming, eh?'
'That could be the title,' said Michael.
The Underground Guard was getting excited. He chuckled. 'You're dead right.'
'My project just closed down,' said Michael. 'I have no money to invest.'
'Ah well, one day my ship will come in,' said the Guard. 'In the meantime, think about what you're into and let me know. Like I say, if I don't have it, I know where to find it.'
'Don't…' Michael stopped at the door. 'Don't the police bother you?'
'Naw. They'd rather people got into this stuff than pick up some disease. But only because the drugs are so expensive on the National Health. Sooner or later, I'll end up in jail. Goes with the territory.'
His blunt pale face established beyond doubt; he'd do well in prison.
Michael thanked the Guard and left.
The logical part of Michael's brain got him home, regretfully, coldly.
Michael sat in his flat in the dark, listening to traffic and the shouts of kids from the clubs.
Michael tasted emptiness. There were times when he wanted Luis back. But that would prove Luis's point in a way. He would even take Philip back. He would take anything, Michael. It is getting hard to see any progress in all this.
He thought of the Guard's stubby pale body, its little potbelly, the undoubtedly uncircumcised cock, and the thought produced a weary sort of sexual response.
OK. Come on then.
The air wavered and parted its lips, and the Guard stepped into Michael's sitting room.
Why does God suffer the Devil?
'Nice place,' the Guard said, casing it.
Then he said, 'Shit.' Then he had to sit down. He'd understood faster than most what he was.
'You're not real,' Michael said, still bored, still exhausted. 'You're a copy. I make copies of people I think I want to have sex with. It's a miracle. If you can figure it out, tell me.'
'Do you mind if I smoke?' the Angel asked.
Michael waved, go ahead. It makes no difference. Once you go, my lungs will clean up again.
The movements of the Angel's pale, pudgy hand were jagged, as if pins were prodding him. With one hand, he flipped out a fag and then a match. His left hand tapped out a nervous rhythm on his thigh. The Guard had broken out in a sweat, and his eyes grew narrower and brighter as he looked about him. His eye fastened onto the wall covered with jumping Picassos. 'Did one of us paint those?' he asked, jabbing a finger at them. 'One of us copies.'
'You're quick,' said Michael.
'Have to be. Everyone in my family's a thief.' The Angel tapped the end of the cigarette on the matchbox before finally lighting up. He drew in gratefully, then blew out. 'You eaten anything?' he asked.
Michael had to think. 'No,' he said quietly. 'I meant to get a takeaway, but I forgot.'
'It's all right, I got plenty of dosh, I'll go get it for you.' The Angel bolted up from the sofa as if it were electrified.
'That wouldn't be honest,' said Michael.
'Why not, I bet I make more than you do.'
'Once you go back to whatever it is you come from, the money you gave the man will disappear. It would be like stealing. I'll give you my money.' Michael heaved his wallet out of his trousers.
'Disappear?' The Angel did a little shuffle in place.
'Mmm hmmm,' said Michael, and held out a tenner.
He took the money, then he said, 'I'll need the keys.'
Laboriously Michael passed those and then he said, 'You don't come back with them, I'll wipe you out of existence and they'll be back here in my pocket.'
'Not if I give them to the man. Then they'll stay there, won't they?'
A long pause.
'You don't really know what would happen with either the keys or the money.' The Angel rocked back and forth slightly on his heels.
That's right, Michael didn't. Another experiment he could make, if he had the heart for another experiment. If he hated killing chickens, why would he want to wipe out the Guard to discover if he got his keys back? And what would happen if his keys stayed lost?
'Knock and I'll open the door,' said Michael. 'Sorry, but you did say you were a thief.'
'I never. I said my family was. I tried all my life not to be, and I'm not, see?'
Michael nodded.
'Though… it does kind of leave you crook inside. Bent, in all kinds of directions.' The Angel smoothed down his hair, like drivers do after they've done something stupid like veer out of their lanes. Michael walked down the stairs with him, to let him out. The air felt like glue he had to fight his way through.
The Guard stopped to breathe out smoke. 'Funny, innit? I already know, nothing I say or do can make a difference to anything.'
'It's a shortcut to a lot of things, being an Angel,' said Michael.
The Guard said, 'Angel, huh. That's what you call us.'
'What would you call yourself?'
'Oh, a right little devil. What do you want to eat?'
'There's a little takeaway place, it looks like a minicab office. It does steak sandwiches. Turn left and left again. You'll find it, just follow the smell. Get something for yourself, too, if you want.'
'Right. I'll be back then.' There was an awkward smile and Michael rocked himself wearily to his feet. They thumped down the hollow wooden steps together, each of them sounding as real as the other.
Michael let the Guard out, and gave him a wave as he walked across the street. Michael discovered he had no energy to climb the stairs. He sat down on them instead, and waited. He thought of the Guard, the pale glow of his sweatiness, his pudginess, the crispness of the gelled hair, the rounded jelly of his arse in the tight trousers. It was as if repugnance were a sock that could be turned inside out. Michael thought of the wedding ring on the Angel's finger. He thought about that business of being bent in all directions. We'l
l do it if he wants to, Michael thought. That was the extent of the attraction.
Michael wished again that he were in love. If he were in love with someone, it would be sit-down meals and not takeaways. He would have someone he could talk to about the grant and the project and how he was to live through it. There was wisdom in love. Without love, wisdom stayed unformulated simply because there was no one who cared enough to talk.
There was a thumping on the door. Michael groaned to his feet, fumbled with the lock, and the Guard burst into the stairwell wafting a kind of freshness, interwoven with a delicious smell of steak.
'Brrrrrr, it's parky out there,' the Guard said, and bounded up the stairs. He strode ahead of Michael into the kitchen area. Cold vapour steamed off him. 'I should have borrowed one of your jackets. Right. I'll just put this away to keep warm.' He peered at the cooker and deciphered its ancient markings. 'Where are the plates?'
'Top shelf over the cooker.'
'Might as well warm the plates as well.' The Angel cast him a sideways glance. 'So. Can I spend the night here?'
'Yes, if you'd like.'
'Thanks,' said the Angel. 'Where are the place mats?'
'Um.' Michael couldn't remember. He had to remember where the place mats were and when he went to get them, he walked as if he had lead boots on.
'Knives… forks… salt.'
A lovely little setting for two was laid out on the table. Michael was aware of something like a mismatch between the man and his behaviour.
The Guard sniffed. 'You got anyone to clean this place?'
'No,' admitted Michael. 'I probably should. My last boyfriend wasn't exactly tidy.'
'Not exactly, no,' said the Angel. 'The whole place is covered in china clay. Did he do all those paintings then?'
'Yup,' sighed Michael. 'He's only been gone a couple of days.'
The Angel's back went very still. 'Where'd he go to?'
'His agent found him a place. He has his first exhibition next week.'
'Ah… so you do let some of us live, then?' The Guard said it as he stood up with candles for the candlestick.
Michael wasn't sure why he didn't like the Guard saying that, knowing that. He didn't have time to work out why he didn't like it.
