by Geoff Ryman
And when Michael got back home, the flat smelled of roast beef. The entire ground floor was in order. The books were on shelves. Places had been found for all of Luis’s canvases, bags of clay, splattered wood, old newspapers, plastic ice cream containers, rope and bits of tyre.
Nick was pleased with his work. ‘A lot of it’s upstairs if you want to go through it. Personally, I’d just chuck the lot. Have you insured this place?’
‘Yes, why?’
Nick took Michael’s shoulder bag to hang up. ‘Because if your friend has even started to sell his stuff, each one of those paintings is worth at least three hundred pounds. And there’s forty of them. That’ll be worth twelve k. You like roast potatoes?’
At dinner Nick was full of schemes. ‘You should do this place up and sell it. Those are Regency banisters. You could do up the whole place as Regency. It’s just opposite the tube, it’s got a roof garden, only one point of access on the street, no neighbours. If you put in a second lockable door at the head of the staircase, this place would be worth three hundred, four hundred thousand. Hell, two bedrooms, Camden Town, I tell you, a year from now it would be worth half a million. If you needed help doing it up, I’m pretty handy, as it happens.’
‘It might be a good idea.’
‘It’s a brilliant idea. It’ll be work, mind you.’
‘I’ll think about it.’ It was what he had said to Emilio. There was something Michael didn’t like.
‘Come on, get up off your arse, this place will never get back in order if you don’t get into some habits. Why don’t you let me wash, and you put away? You know where things go?’
So rather neatly, as a team, they got the dishes washed. Nick soaped them lavishly, rinsed them in water so hot it steamed, and shook them.
‘This thing of yours, this miracle,’ he said, scrubbing between the teeth of Michael’s forks. ‘You say you can call up anybody? I mean, we could call up James Dean? He was gay. He’d be happy to do anything. From the sound of things, he did.’ Nick chuckled darkly. He rinsed a glass. ‘People would pay to see him do it as well.’
‘What, do you mean make a film?’
‘We could do, yeah.’ As if it were Michael’s idea.
Michael had an answer. He shook his head. ‘The instant he went back, the film would show nothing. And that I do know for certain.’
Nick seemed absorbed in polishing a wine glass. He held it up to the light. ‘So you mean they can’t be photographed?’
‘The image only stays as long as they are here. Every trace of them goes. Think of it as a fast death. Like I said, being an Angel’s a shortcut. It’s what happens to all of us. After we’re gone, the children sell the house, the new owners tear out the garden to make a driveway, and throw away our old photographs. It just happens quicker to Angels.’
Nick tried to look philosophical. He succeeded in looking like a contestant on a quiz show. ‘Yeah,’ he said, his brows touching. He put a plate in the rack. ‘So. If they hang around, these Angels, their photographs stick around as well?’
Michael imagined them, hundreds of Angels hanging around Camden Town so people could see them wanking in films. ‘That,’ said Michael, ‘would be like a run in reality.’
‘Reality’s already running, mate,’ said Nick, with eyes like cash registers.
And after dinner Michael found himself caught in a fleshy hug. ‘Hmmm,’ said the Guard, kissing him as if he were still washing plates. There was something awkward in the way he did it; his arms pushed Michael away as much as they held him. Nick leaned back and looked at Michael, in what could have been affection, if it hadn’t looked appraising.
‘I’m into a lot of things,’ the Angel promised, rubbing his crotch against Michael’s. You couldn’t fault him for being over-subtle.
There was one side of Michael’s sensuality which had not been explored of late. He crunched a bitter pill, and Nick offered up his buttocks. Michael was surprised. The things that were unattractive on the front of Nick – his pale plumpness – were beautiful from the back. His buttocks were white, flawless mounds. Though his body gave evidence that it had been penetrated many times before, Michael was aware from the clenching of Nick’s jaw that it was not comfortable for him. But that was not what Nick said.
‘Shall I stop?’ asked Michael, pulling back.
‘Naw, naw, it’s great, go on.’
Pumping from Viagra, headachy and breathing thinly because the drug had swelled up the inside of his nose, Michael came, squirting from a penis that was artificially clogged with swollen veins. His cock felt like a cake decorator squeezing out icing from a tiny hole. The orgasm kept coming, as it were, until his balls ached and he felt drained, and he actually wanted it to end. Someone Michael didn’t even like had just given him the most thorough orgasm of his life.
So Michael woke up once more with Nick in the flat. This time, Nick was putting away his clothes. ‘You,’ said Nick, ‘need to do your laundry.’
Yeah maybe, but it’s my laundry, thought Michael.
‘You have a washing machine?’
Michael knew what was coming. ‘No.’
‘Well, I can go to Coin Operated while you’re at work if you like.’
‘What is it with you? I can do my own laundry.’
‘Do it yourself, if it suits you.’
Michael hated the whole business of going to the laundry. ‘I’ll give you some money.’
‘Wouldn’t want to rob the coin-op, would we?’ Nick grinned.
That night Michael found all his socks individually stored in transparent plastic bags, and sorted by colour, blue, black, brown, white.
‘Why did you do that?’ Michael demanded, feeling trespassed upon.
Nick was cooking again. ‘Stops you losing them, mate. Otherwise they get separated and nobody needs a drawerful of half pairs of socks. Trick of me Mum’s. You can say thank you if you like.’
Michael felt helpless. There was absolutely no way to say that it wasn’t useful. You could even see which colour each pair was.
‘Just … just ask me next time you’re going to change something.’
Nick bowed. ‘To hear is to obey, oh Master of the Lamp. Incidentally, I’ll be polite about the contents of your fridge, but let’s just say that some of it had prices on in shillings and pence. It’s all still in the bin, and if you want to go through it, please feel free.’ He canoodled his way forward and gave Michael a kiss. He was actually wearing an apron. It was like watching a character in EastEnders who the writers have decided would go suddenly gay.
At dinner he helped himself only after first serving Michael. ‘You don’t use it for anything do you? This miracle of yours.’
‘I get my socks put in plastic bags.’
‘Well there’s a thrill. Look, why don’t you let me make a few suggestions.’
‘You did.’
‘Well, let’s make some more, see who we can get in here. It’s such a waste not to use it. What? You go and ask any other bloke in the kingdom, gay or straight, what they’d do if they could have anybody they wanted and they’d tell what they’d do soon enough, I can tell you.’
‘And that would be what they say. Not what they’d do.’
‘Look. Let’s go to bed after dinner, and see what takes your fancy. If there’s something you really want, I’ll just hive myself off. Give me the power to come back by myself and I can come and go as convenient.’
Michael lied. ‘I can’t do that.’
‘Have you tried?’
Michael lied. ‘Yeah, a couple of times.’
Nick seemed to find it funny. He chuckled. ‘Like hell you did.’
There was some kind of issue about power. Michael now knew that.
In bed, Nick insinuated himself next to Michael. ‘Now, let’s see. Who shall we have then, eh?’ He mentioned a boyish, not-so-young film star beloved of young girls. Nick nuzzled up against Michael. Michael didn’t fancy the little squit.
‘I’d like to piss on hi
m,’ said Nick, with a sudden surge of aggression that made Michael go still.
‘I wouldn’t want to do anything to him at all.’
‘He is a bit wimpish. Maybe you’d like something a bit more butch.’ He mentioned a boxing champion, low of brow, high of aggression, who was currently in prison for pummelling a waiter in a restaurant. ‘That could be a bit more of a challenge. I hear he’s hung like a horse. Talk about biting off more than you can chew, eh?’
‘Oh, all right,’ sighed Michael.
The brute arrived in an Italian suit, with a neck that was wider than his head.
‘Imagine that on top of you. You wouldn’t need the Viagra with him, he wouldn’t care if you were hard or not.’ Nick’s merry little eyes said: you didn’t know I knew about the Viagra, did you? He nudged him. ‘Look at the size of it. That would cure your haemorrhoids.’
Michael felt something move in the air that was also a tickle inside his head. He felt it move and clench and try to hold.
‘Go on,’ said Nick, to the boxer. ‘Drop ’em.’
Michael extended himself into the air. He felt himself grapple with something. Michael pushed it back down, and saw a tremor in the muscles around Nick’s mouth. Nick had tried to make the boxer lower his trousers.
‘I call the shots,’ said Michael.
Nick chuckled.
Nick had tried to take control of the miracle.
With a single swipe, Michael pushed the boxer back to where he had come from. He felt his eyes blaze.
Nick looked surprised. ‘All right, you didn’t like him.’
Michael was angry but could find no words.
That was not Nick’s problem. ‘I was just trying to find something you might like. Or do you only want me?’ His eyes, made of blue ice, simply could not do melting warmth.
‘I may not want you at all,’ warned Michael.
‘Aw baby.’ Was he being sarcastic or affectionate? Michael couldn’t tell; both explanations fitted his behaviour, his tone of voice. He stroked Michael’s arm. ‘Let’s just go to sleep.’ Nick turned off the light and swung his best feature towards Michael. Michael felt his penis creep out of its shell. In the dark, Nick’s body was as warm and as comforting as a lover’s.
Nick was loyal. Nick never left him. Nick never gave up thinking of things to do for him.
‘I thought I’d finally tackle the old studio today,’ Nick said at breakfast. He meant the place where Picasso used to work. It was still crowded with stuff the artist had thought he might use: bicycle wheels, a single fur-lined glove, masses of magazines stained with paint, sheets and towels crusty with dried colour.
‘Don’t do that. Let me call Luis and see what he wants from it first.’ Michael looked at the flat, with the newly polished wooden floors and clean kitchen counter tops. He thought of Luis and knew: Luis would demand he keep it for him.
‘No. On second thoughts, just chuck it for me.’
Nick passed him a packed lunch. Michael ate it alone at his desk: chicken sandwiches, an apple, sticks of celery. He got back from work and Nick said, ‘You got the Internet, right? Do you think I could use it?’ The throw rugs were out on the roof garden, drying.
‘What for? No downloading whole videos.’
‘No, no, just a few images. You’re a mean bugger, ain’t ya?’
‘Yes, I am. How many images?’
‘Look, I’ll be careful, all right.’
Each night, dinner was direct from cookbooks: boeuf en croûte; curries with raisins and homemade chapatti. Every day a different part of the flat would have been scrubbed and polished.
Michael would come home to be presented with Internet images of twelve-year-olds in loincloths; students in a wrestling school in India, pubescent under folds of cloth. ‘Doesn’t that look sweet? Go on, admit it, they’re lovely.’
Nick moved the computer into the bedroom. He downloaded images of a man who had cut off his penis and was now hammering nails through his testicles. The man had posted it himself, with an e-mail address for responses. Nick giggled. ‘More like an e-nail. I mean that one would let you do anything to him, anything at all.’ Nick’s eyes burned with a tiny pin-prick light and his high greasy forehead gleamed like an icefloe.
Michael would be reading a book in bed and Nick would call, ‘Here, you got to see this.’ Michael looked up wearily. ‘Look at this fat old whore. She loves being made fat. Look, she’s got a progress chart here, she’s fattening herself up like a goose. She says she wants someone to keep her in a dungeon, and force-feed her and then cook her and eat her!’ This struck Nick as being wildly funny. ‘I mean she actually wants to be cooked!’
Michael looked at the woman’s face. She was smiling, bright and intelligent. She looked like someone who might work for him. He felt sick. ‘I want that stuff off my hard disk. I want you to go and empty the cache and make sure it stays empty.’
Nick laughed at him. ‘Oh-ho-ho man, you don’t know the half of it. You really don’t.’
‘And I don’t need to. That stuff is illegal and it’s criminal.’
‘No, it’s not, they do it to themselves.’
‘They do it to themselves because … because their imaginations have been corrupted.’
‘Oh-ho man, listen to you. You sound like someone’s maiden auntie.’
‘People just do not naturally cut off their cocks. They do it because it has a social meaning. That’s why they want people to send them e-mail. That means there has to be a social system for it to have meaning in the first place. And people like you are creating it.’
Nick was still roaring. ‘Ah-ha-all right. I’ll get the stuff off your bleeding hard disk. I’ll bring it in on video instead!’ This struck him as particularly funny.
And sure enough, Michael came home the next day to find a video from Russia playing on his television. A soldier was being lifted up and lowered onto a waiting cock. He winced from pain. He glanced directly at the camera, hoping for it to stop. Then he threw his head back in pain. The two men who bounced him up and down glanced nervously at each other. Was this right?
Michael punched off the power. ‘What would have happened if I’d brought a colleague home with me?’
‘You’d have changed channels.’ Nick giggled.
‘I would have turned you off.’
‘That’s what I meant.’ Nick’s laughter subsided. ‘You really wouldn’t have the right to do that, you know.’
Nick stood up to face Michael. He was smiling with some kind of catlike satisfaction. His voice started out silky, but roughened as he spoke. ‘Whatever I am, Michael, I am a living, thinking, feeling being. You have no more right to switch me off or send me back than a mother has a right to throttle her own child. You got that? You think about it, Michael. While you’re being so high and bloody moral about everything.’
Michael had no answer.
‘I’m not one of your bleeding little chickens. You called me up. Now you’re responsible for me. What am I supposed to do, eh? Run around and pick up your shit-stained underwear and wash it just so you’ll let me stay alive? Am I supposed to go back to my trade? Which incidentally I was doing very well at. Don’t you think people might notice, Michael, if two Nick Dodders showed up in the same business in the same town? I’m here because of you, mate, and you’re stuck with me.’
Michael was caught completely off guard. ‘You could get a job.’
‘Oh cheers, thanks, charming. Without any papers, without anything to prove who I am, except someone else who lives with his wife in Vauxhall. Yeah, a job, right. So we’re agreed then, are we?’
Michael was lost. ‘Agreed about what?’
‘I get to stay here until I find a job and can support myself?’
‘I need to think about that.’
‘Well you better think about it, Michael, because I don’t have anywhere else to go.’ Nick’s voice rose, extremely effectively, to a bellowing roar of outrage. ‘And I am fed up with you threatening to kill me every time I d
o something you don’t like! Got that?’
Michael found he was shaking.
‘Sorry to shout,’ said Nick, deflating.
I’m stuck with him, my God, he’s right, I’m stuck with him.
And after dinner, Nick slid next to him under the sheets and said, ‘I’m sorry, Mike. I lost my temper, all right? It’s just this whole thing gets on my nerves. I’m an active guy, no pun intended, and this hanging around the house just isn’t good for me. Look. I’ve got an idea. See us both out of a hole, all right?’
‘What is it?’ Michael said, knowing he wasn’t going to like it.
‘There’s no point me applying for ordinary jobs, I got no skills, and even if I could prove who I was, all it would do is show I got my education in the slammer. So, I’ve got to work for myself, right? Now I got an idea for a bit of what’s called basket-weave marketing.’
‘It’s porn, right?’ said Michael.
‘It’s better than that, mate. Picture this. You’re a retired Bengali millionaire, right? You’re fat, you’re old, you’re rich, and you’re staying in a posh hotel. You go on line, and you see a lovely bit of video, and it’s got this beautiful blond hunk, hung like a horse. Well you’re as black as the ace of spades and you got a kink for blonds. And it says, no money upfront. You can have this beautiful blond hunk. Just pay us when he shows up. Well, you’re a bit suspicious, but you done something similar before, so you have a go. And five minutes later, shall we say, miraculously, there is an Angel on your doorstep. With a big blond dick and orders to shoot. And he doesn’t do nothing until we receive your securely encrypted credit card number.’ Nick’s eyes were glazed; he seemed to be staring into some kind of paradise. ‘Huh. You can even download the video as a souvenir.’
Michael wanted this not to work. ‘There would be no video, it would disappear when they did.’
Nick cuddled up to him. ‘Well. Part of the idea is that our Angels wouldn’t disappear. No offence, but the way you treat us is a bit exploitative. Tuh. You send us packing as soon as you’ve used us. Now. We’d keep our Angels. And that would be good for business. Cos, you see, you never really take off as a business if you stay a takeaway. You got to have premises. People like to eat out sometimes; sometimes it’s a bit inconvenient with the in-laws staying. People like to see a real address in the real world; they won’t pay the bill otherwise. So we’d keep ‘em all in a hotel, all our Angels. Maybe lots of hotels, once we got going, all around the world. And that would be the pitch: see the video, have the hunks. Eat in, eat out.’
