Part 18 (1/2)
”Right,” said Brian. ”Let's get him fed.”
But the food wasn't ready yet. It hurt to leave the steamy kitchen and step out into the back yard, where old mattresses lay in neat rows, plastic crates stood in a pyramid, and rusted poles supported a web of clotheslines. Eight or nine teenagers were practicing flips and rolls around the makes.h.i.+ft outdoor gym.
”He's going to mess that up,” said Opal. ”See?”
One of the youths rolled off a mattress, hitting the ground hard. He stood up, rubbing his ribs.
”Ouch,” he said.
”You nearly nailed it,” Opal told him.
From their left, a canine yap sounded. A Jack Russell on a lead formed of braided string wagged his tail. His owner was a girl around Richard's age; her sweats.h.i.+rt was pink, bearing a picture of a flat-chested muscular man holding a knife. The heading read CARLSEN: THE FIREMAN RETURNS, while his blade dripped moving blood, animated droplets sliding down the sweats.h.i.+rt fabric.
”That's Zoe,” said Opal. ”And this”
Everything faded as Richard's hearing filled with the hiss of non-existent surf.
Blades and the whirring machines, peeling back the skin and slicing the skull, glistening folds of fatty brain, trickles of and slicing the skull, glistening folds of fatty brain, trickles of blood and no one noticing. blood and no one noticing.
Richard felt choked by hands that did not exist, punched by invisible fists inside his chest.
”Jeez,” said Zoe. ”What's with the f.u.c.king kid?”
”I don't Richie? You all right?”A cramp pulled him over. Hot fluid spewed from his mouth.
”Oh, gross.”
”Richie...”
”Sorry.” He wiped his mouth. ”I'm really sorry.”
Zoe picked up her Jack Russell.
”Hey, Opal. You keep a pet, you gotta clean up after it, y'know?”
”f.u.c.k you.” Opal put her arm around Richard. ”Just go away.”
His world lurched again.
She's hugging me.
The world was so strange.
Next morning he walked with Brian through Brixton, past blocks of flats with piles of bin-bags stacked outside. Rotting rubbish emanated a stink; it felt as if the air had thickened, becoming heavier, and you had to push through it to get anywhere.
”No pick-ups for six weeks,” said Brian. ”And that s.h.i.+t Fat Billy is making like it's not his fault.”
”Oh,” said Richard.
”And like, the weird thing is people believe him. Like if he had more powers, he'd be able to sort out the mess.”
Back in the squat, there had been a couple of people with s.h.i.+rts whose logos were the A-on-pentagram symbol of New Anarchism.
”You're an NAer?”
”s.h.i.+t, no. They're stupid. OK, through here.”
They pa.s.sed along an alleyway, skirting more rotting refuse, and came out onto a grimy road. Opposite was a shop with a handpainted sign Cal's Cycles and ceramic sheeting protecting the window. The metal door was guarded by three locks; Brian pressed his thumb against one, and extended his keychain from his belt to open the others.
”Give us a hand with these, will you?”
”What do I do?”
There was a trick to jerking the ceramic shutters open. Richard tried to helpe push them up, into the slots over the windows, but Brian did all the work.
”Cal won't be in till ten, most likely. You'll recognise him by the tats.”
”Tats?”
”Bare arms and tattoos, kind of old-fas.h.i.+oned, but at least the designs move.”
Inside, the shop smelled of sawdust and oil, and the floorboards were grey with age, iron-hard. Racks hung from the ceiling; from them bicycles were suspended, looking insectile, like praying mantises, in the vertical position. Gauntlets and boots filled shelves and two gla.s.s display cases, one of which doubled as a sales counter. There was a phone pad for taking payments, and a stained coffee mug which someone had left standing overnight.
”If we don't clean that,” said Brian, ”it'll just stay there growing fungus, maybe evolve intelligence. Could do with the conversation round here.”
”You want me to work on software?”
”Got a bunch of gauntlets out back. Whole batch has buggy controlware. You up for sorting it out?”
”I... don't know.”
”So let's find out.”
The workshop-storeroom was cluttered with electronics and mechanical components, the air tangy with oil and metal dust, sharper than out front. A large scratched wallscreen would serve as Richard's display, and a small graphite processor pad for the actual programming, instead of a phone. On one wall, triggered by Richard and Brian's entrance, a movie poster brightened into animation: a grey-haired man performing gekrunner-style moves but with bare hands and ordinary shoes, and beneath him the words: Le Mouvement, Le Mouvement, C'est Moi. C'est Moi.
”Early parkour guy,” said Brian. ”French, coming to London to talk about the Tao of free-running. Old school, before your actual gekrunning, cause they didn't have these little doodads.”
He handed over a gauntlet with a cracked-open casing.
”Looks like a car motive cell.” Richard followed weblines with his finger. ”Viral engineering, viruses carrying the electronicYou know.”