Plastic Jesus E-Book

Wayne Simmons

• Herausgeber: Salt
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 332

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

Plastic Jesus grabs you by the throat. From the opening paragraph, without warning, it plunges you into a world of fear and confusion and visceral emotion. When it spews you back out again, you are left dizzy, overwhelmed – and desperate to read more. And it's then that you take your first fearful steps into Lark City… It is the near future, following a devastating Holy War. Once part of the US colonies, Maalside, the New Republic, now stands alone in the Pacific, separated from the heartland by 200 miles of salty ocean. Lark City is its capital, watched over by a 50 foot, pouting, stiletto-heeled and garter-belted 'Miss Liberty', a crude parody of the famous landmark across the water. In this brutal neon jungle, Code Guy Johnny Lyon writes a Jesus social networking AI, to rebrand religion following the war. But something goes wrong; a virtual hell breaks on the streets of Lark – a violent, surreal and uncontrollable social breakdown. Caught in this terrifying web of danger are Sarah Lee, Johnny's co-worker, drug lord Paul McBride who is determined to exploit the chaos to wipe out his enemies, and McBride's junkie daughter, a prostitute called Kitty. Now, only Johnny can save Sarah, Kitty and the city.

Leseprobe

Plastic Jesus grabs you by the throat. From the opening paragraph, without warning, it plunges you into a world of fear and confusion and visceral emotion. When it spews you back out again, you are left dizzy, overwhelmed – and desperate to read more. And it’s then that you take your first fearful steps into Lark City . . .

It is the near future, following a devastating Holy War. Once part of the US colonies, Maalside, the New Republic, now stands alone in the Pacific, separated from the heartland by 200 miles of salty ocean. Lark City is its capital, watched over by a 50 foot, pouting, stiletto-heeled and garter-belted ‘Ms Liberty’, a crude parody of the famous landmark across the water.

In this brutal neon jungle, Code Guy Johnny Lyon writes a Jesus social networking AI, to rebrand religion following the war. But something goes wrong; a virtual hell breaks on the streets of Lark – a violent, surreal and uncontrollable social breakdown.

Caught in this terrifying web of danger are Sarah Lee, Johnny’s co-worker, drug lord Paul McBride who is determined to exploit the chaos to wipe out his enemies, and McBride’s junkie daughter, a prostitute called Kitty.

Now, only Johnny can save Sarah, Kitty and the city.

PRAISE FOR WAYNE SIMMONS

‘Simmons steps out of his blood-splattered comfort zone and makes an indelible mark on the sci-fi genre.’

—ROBIN PIERCE, Starburst Magazine

‘Modern, edgy and fascinating – Simmons has come up with a book that keeps you working for the payoff . . . and then some.’

—SION SMITH, Skin Deep Magazine

PLASTIC JESUS

Belfast born, Wayne Simmons penned reviews and interviews for several online genre zines before publication of his debut novel in 2008. Wayne’s fiction has since been published in the UK, Austria, Germany, Spain, Turkey and North America. Wayne currently lives in Wales with his ghoulfiend and a Jack Russel terrier called Dita. Look out for Wayne at various genre and tattoo cons or visit him online: http://www.waynesimmons.org

Plastic Jesus

by

WAYNE SIMMONS

CROMER

Published by Salt Publishing Ltd

12 Norwich Road, Cromer, Norfolk NR27 0AX

All rights reserved

Copyright © Wayne Simmons, 2013

The right of Wayne Simmons to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act1988.

This book is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Salt Publishing.

Salt Publishing 2013

Created by Salt Publishing Ltd

This book is sold subject to the conditions that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out,or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

ISBN 978 1 84471 972 3 electronic

For Dug, Jerry and Ty. Thank you for the music.

‘People think that I have come to cast peace upon the world. They do not know that I have come to cast conflicts . . .’

The Gospel of St Thomas

Contents

PROLOGUE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY ONE

TWENTY TWO

TWENTY THREE

TWENTY FOUR

TWENTY FIVE

TWENTY SIX

TWENTY SEVEN

TWENTY EIGHT

TWENTY NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY ONE

THIRTY TWO

THIRTY THREE

THIRTY FOUR

THIRTY FIVE

THIRTY SIX

THIRTY SEVEN

THIRTY EIGHT

THIRTY NINE

FORTY

FORTY ONE

FORTY TWO

FORTY THREE

FORTY FOUR

FORTY FIVE

FORTY SIX

FORTY SEVEN

FORTY EIGHT

FORTY NINE

FIFTY

FIFTY ONE

FIFTY TWO

FIFTY THREE

FIFTY FOUR

FIFTY FIVE

FIFTY SIX

FIFTY SEVEN

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

PROLOGUE

Becky looked so fragile.

Johnny watched her twisting and turning on the bed, sheets gathered at her feet like crumpled foil.

She’d been zoned out for the last week. She was lucid now, no longer wired, the VR coil hanging by her bed like a dead snake.

There was a nurse in the room with them. She was pretty and Johnny felt awful for even thinking that at a time like this.

A doctor was there too. His arms were folded, the watch on his wrist horribly visible. Yet part of Johnny still waited for a miracle cure: some new and radical medicine to be sucked into a needle and injected into Becky’s bloodstream, saving the day. It wouldn’t happen.

The nurse bent over the bed, wiping Becky’s forehead with a damp cloth. Johnny could see her face now. She wasn’t as pretty as he had thought and he felt slightly better for knowing that. Becky was the only one allowed to be pretty. Valiantly fighting for each breath on the bed before them, patchy hair peppered over her skull like ash. Her bones sharp and brittle, her skin like a veil, freckles all but gone. But her eyes . . .

A sharp gasp escaped her mouth.

The doctor whispered something to the nurse and Johnny realised it was time.

He felt a sudden rush of blood. His pulse was racing.

He hadn’t prepared anything. Sure, he’d spent the last thirty-six hours at her bedside, but he wasn’t ready for Becky to die. Not now. Not here: in this metal bed with the not-so-nice doctor and the (not-so?) pretty nurse.

He reached for Becky’s hand.

Her nails, still sharp, dug into his moist palm, breaking skin. She made a noise that Johnny would never forget; a high-pitched whine as air escaped from her frayed lungs. Her arms suddenly spread out wide as if some part of her was trying to crawl out from this ravaged little body, to be set free after weeks of fighting and struggling and suffering.

She was fading fast.

Her eyes swelled, damp but still beautiful. The whining noise was softer now as her breathing paled. And then, after one final gasp for air, Johnny Lyon watched and held on and cried as his wife gave up and died.

Silence.

Johnny kept hold of Becky’s hand. Her arm had fallen limp but he wouldn’t let go.

The whining noise returned; Johnny realising it wasn’t coming from Becky, now, but the machine in the corner. He barely noticed it anymore. It was just another part of the room, like the metal bed or the tall windows or the plastic curtains. But now the machine’s sound was changing, as if the damn thing had been recording this whole scene for him and was now playing it back. A little something to remember her by, he expected the not-so-pretty nurse to say before syncing a vid marked ‘Becky’ to his cell.

But she didn’t.

She simply looked to the doctor, who looked at his watch before saying something that Johnny didn’t hear and didn’t want to hear.

It was finished.

ONE

Ms Liberty stood on the edge of Lark City harbour, lips pouting, star-spangled breasts pointing out to sea. At just over one hundred and fifty feet tall (in heels), she was a crude parody of New York’s classic landmark.

Her face was legendary, one baby blue winking across the water, as if to goad the former US of A. Her right hand pointed to the sky, the left pressed against the hip curve of her garter belt. Shimmering from head to toe, she made a feisty welcome for sea and air traffic alike. An’ it harm none, her inscription read, Do what you will.

This was Maalside, the New Republic. Lark City was its capital, sprawling across the west coast like a neon jungle. Once part of the US colonies, Maal now stood alone in the Pacific, separated from the heartland by 200 miles of salty ocean and a devil-may-care attitude.

Kitty McBride turned up Tomb Street, Lark’s Red Light District. She was everything Ms Liberty was not, drifting through the city like a ghost, freak shows and peep shows dancing around her like marionettes.

She moved past the Penny Dreadful.

Kitty knew girls who worked there, knew the work was good. Penny was a reputable place, popular with the suited and booted; men with wedding rings in their pockets who’d pay top dollar for a young thing like her.

But Kitty’s turf was the street, her Johns from clubs and bars where stuck-up broads from Penny wouldn’t be seen dead.

She found Vegas, Tomb’s busiest bar. Converted from an old church, Vegas sat nestled between two strip clubs: the infamous Route 66 (where the boys get their kicks) and another dive called Swingers.

Kitty entered, nodding at the Bar Man.

He returned the nod, poured her a glass of water and passed it across the bar.

She grabbed her drink then took her usual seat in Vegas; a red plastic sofa in the corner. Chequered cushions littered the sofa but she removed them, as she always did, taking each cushion in turn and stacking them out of sight behind her.

It was warm inside, the heat overbearing.

Sweat coated her body. The New York Dolls shirt was sticking to her skin.

She scanned the room, looking for Johns.

The décor was so familiar: faux newspaper cuttings on the walls; framed snapshots above the bar, mostly punk bands that Kitty was too young to have even heard of. Bands like Sex Pistols, Blondie, Sonic Youth. Bands like New York Dolls. The irony was lost on her.

The door opened and Kitty looked over.

A tall, thin man entered, eyes darting around the bar. He looked young, desperate. Totally Kitty’s type when it came to earning potential. A quick shuffle would sort him out and, more importantly, sort her out with some cash.

Kitty needed dope.

She hadn’t had a hit in almost as long as she hadn’t had a shower, and it was beginning to show. Her fingers started drumming on the table. She licked her lips. Started to itch but didn’t know where to scratch.

Kitty watched the new guy make a beeline for the bar.

The Box was playing a live feed from the Barrenlands, the former Middle East, countries such as Israel, Iraq and Iran. But these were only names to Johnny Lyon, victims of a Holy War that ended badly. The Barrenlands were nasty, known as The Hole in the World for good reason. At their centre an actual hole ran far into the ground, an unchartered abyss leading to hell itself. Scientists reckoned it was the earth’s deepest tear. But tonight, Johnny knew something deeper.

The hole in his heart.

He grabbed a seat, ordered JD and coke then sank it in one. His throat was almost numb from the hammering it had been taking lately. The drinks tasted softer by the day, tonight’s like straight coke.

Johnny banged his glass on the bar to signal a refill.

The Bar Man raised an eyebrow. He looked at Johnny suspiciously.

‘You good for it?’ he asked.

Johnny nodded.

He pulled a credit card from his wallet and inserted it directly into the bar’s old chip-and-pin.

That seemed to placate the Bar Man.

‘Bottle or shot?’ he asked.

Johnny took the bottle.

The Bar Man typed the bill into the chip-and-pin.

Johnny punched his code in; four simple digits. Easy. He waited until the card was debited, knowing his credit was almost maxed but not caring. As long as he had enough for tonight, all was fine and fucking dandy.

He lifted the bottle, poured a healthier dollop of JD into his glass, this time adding only a little mixer.

Johnny downed the contents in one swig.

He surveyed the bar, confidence brewing now he’d had himself a couple of drinks. He saw the regulars that every night would hold in a place like this: broken men, staring at their drinks.

Johnny wondered if he was somehow transmitting his own misery to them, if maybe they were that little bit more melancholic due to being in the company of his sorry ass. He thought of his day-job, coding VR. How some folks would pick up on others’ feelings or memories when wired, as if every user, every person plugging into the system and interacting with the environments and scenarios created by code, left a little piece of themselves behind.

‘Four more beers when you’re ready, boss.’

‘Need a tray?’

‘Sure thing.’

Johnny turned, finding a younger guy stood at the bar beside him. The wiretap was pulled down from his face but his eyes were still dead. Johnny knew that look: kid had been zoning for hours.

‘Alright, bud?’ the kid asked.

‘Couldn’t be better,’ Johnny said.

He watched the wirehead carry his tray over to where his buddies were sitting. They hardly noticed as he sat their beers down, wiretaps and coils running to their cells, bodies shaking as the code flowed through, drowning their brains in whatever VR release was doing the rounds.

Johnny poured another shot.

He noticed some kid in the corner staring at him. Skinny little thing with peroxide hair and a New York Dolls shirt. Couldn’t have been old enough to drink. Typical of this fucking place.

His eyes moved back to the bottle. He could see his own silhouette in the dark brown glass; his head swollen up like something from a funhouse mirror. Dark rings circled his eyes. His hair was unkempt and long. The bottle was his mistress and she weren’t keeping him like she should.

Becky.

He drained another glass then slammed it on the table, burping obnoxiously.

The Bar Man glared at him.

Johnny glared back.

He reached for the bottle, his hand seeming lighter than before. A little JD spilled on the bar as he poured another glass but Johnny didn’t care. He didn’t bother with the mixer this time, downing the JD straight. Shook his head, like some old dog, as the golden liquid worked its way down his throat.

A stupid, sloppy smile spread across his face. He looked at the reflection in the bottle again, expecting to see himself grinning back like a goddamn Cheshire cat. But it was too dark and his eyes were failing him, everything now blurred and faded like some old movie on the Box.

The Bar Man returned, unfurling the white towel from over his shoulder and mopping the bar where the JD had spilled.

Johnny beamed at him, ‘Yeah, sorry about that.’

But the Bar Man wasn’t amused.

‘Think you’ve had enough,’ he said.

But Johnny wanted more.

He stood up from his stool, a man meaning business. The stool fell over, crashed to the floor.

Johnny reached for the JD, flipping it to his mouth. He glugged heavily. The booze ran down his neck, his shirt, his coat, spilling onto the floor around him.

He gagged, felt something rise up from his insides. Puke, dark and bloody, surged from his mouth like lava.

It spat across the bar.

The Bar Man unfurled his towel, like a matador, deflecting the spray.

He looked up, appalled.

Johnny dropped the bottle. It smashed on the floor.

He grabbed the side of the bar to steady himself, spurts of puke still heaving from his mouth.

Every eye present (and unwired) stared back at him.

What are they all looking at, the fuckers?! Johnny wanted to say, but the world was swaying around him, blurring.

The Bar Man moved towards him, but someone else got there first: the kid in the New York Dolls shirt .

‘Leave him,’ she said.

Then grabbed Johnny, led him to the door.

Johnny could hear the Bar Man shouting at him. He heard himself growl some kind of retort.

Then he was out of there.

TWO

Kitty lived in an apartment just off Tomb Street, an old dive full of decay and damp. Electro music whirred obnoxiously from every other window. The sweet smell of Marijuana hung heavy in the air. A clatter of activity, glass breaking and shouting, came from somewhere close by.

Kitty moved through the doorway.

‘Watch the step,’ she said to the John as he stumbled.

A couple of yahoos pushed past them.

One of the doors on the ground floor had been kicked in. An old woman with a bust lip called out from within but Kitty ignored her, grabbing the John by the elbow and guided him up the stairs.

It was a three-floor climb, the lift having failed long before Kitty had ever lived here. With the weight of the John to bear, it took much longer to get up the stairs.

A handful of kids, hooded jackets and wiretaps covering their faces, lined the approach to the third floor. Kitty dipped her head low as she passed them, expecting the usual smartass remarks. But they said nothing, lost in their VR world of gaming, and narcotics. Wired in all senses of the word.

She reached her apartment.

Slid one hand into the pocket of her drains, retrieving her keycard. She let go of the John, watched him slump against the wall. Unlocked the door.

Once inside, the John seemed to get some balance back. He stood by the bathroom door, eyeing the place up.

It wasn’t much to look at.

A single, fold-down bed took pride of place in the centre of the room. A scabby mattress with You-Know-What stains sat on top. Small piles of clothing, mostly tees and pairs of drains, littered the floor. A few posters on the wall. A dressing table, with an old sheet draped across its mirror like some lazy pantomime ghoul.

‘Christ,’ the John said. ‘This place . . .’

‘Is a shit hole,’ Kitty said. ‘I know that. But it’s my shit hole.’

The John didn’t reply, instead stumbling over to the bed and collapsing face-down onto the You-Know-What stains.

‘Great,’ Kitty muttered.

And she meant it.

An opened carton caught her eye from the other side of the room. She walked over, retrieved it and glanced out onto the Tomb Street nightlife, swigging absently on warm day-old milk.

Once drained, she crumpled the carton and dropped it out the opened window.

It struck the head of a stumbling old drunk, singing his way down the street. He stopped, seeming to think about what had happened before moving on again, chorus resumed at full decibel.

That amused Kitty.

She stood for a moment, drinking up Lark City’s sounds, sights and smells.

Then she returned to the bed.

The John was still flat out, arms and legs akimbo.

His wallet poked out from the back of his baggies. Kitty reached for it, flipping it open.

Inside was a picture, no doubt a girlfriend or wife. Typical, Kitty thought.

She took his credit card before sticking the wallet back into the John’s pocket. She slid the card into the back pocket of her vinyl drains.

Easy money.

Kitty retrieved her cell from a small pile of clothes in the middle of the room. She flipped it open, muttered a name, made the call.

‘Geordie, I’ve got the cash. Bring us the usual.’

Kenny stood in the living area of an apartment on Titanic Quarter, cold sweat running down his back.

The corpse of the apartment’s owner lay on the floor beside him.

The man’s killer stood right in front of Kenny. His name was King. He held a blood stained brass figurine in one hand.

A cell was in his other hand. It was ringing and King answered it, talked for a moment, like nothing had just happened, then snapped it closed.

His eyes found Kenny.

‘That was just some junkie calling his cell,’ he said. ‘Silly bitch thought she was talking to him’, and here King nudged the body on the floor with his foot. ‘She wants her dope.’ He bent down, addressed the dead man: ‘Now where would you have stashed it, pal?’

‘Holy fuck,’ Kenny breathed, still in shock. ‘He’s dead. You fucking killed him!’

‘Shhh, I’m thinking,’ King said.

He looked around the room, drawn to the Box in the corner. It was synced to that new Reality Extreme program, DEATHSTAR. King stared at it for a while, hangdog expression on his face.

On screen was the show’s host, Kal, all diamond earrings and veneered teeth.

Kal spoke through a clear breathing mask: ‘A sad day for viewers everywhere following the departure of last week’s favourite, ex-model, Cynthia Lazar.’

The cam zoomed in on Cynthia’s body, lying at the bottom of a mountain, her face frozen in a look of fear.

The words rockface challenge ran along the bottom of the screen.

‘Thirty eight year old Cynthia brought in a record number of hits with her exciting demise.’ Kal’s voice lowered momentarily, ‘Our thoughts are with her friends and family at this time,’ then brightened with: ‘Of course, viewers can still catch Cynthia’s trial at the usual places. Hit it up on the Net. Wire to the VR replay or catch the Box reruns right here on our special catch-up show later today!’

‘King!’ Kenny cried. ‘Did you hear me?’

The other man waved his hand.

‘Shhh. I’m watching this.’

The vid switched to Val who looked so similar to Kal that she could have been grown in the same vat tank.

A man stood beside Val. Jet black hair fell over his smooth forehead. He’d used so much Botox that his lips hardly moved when he smiled. But his eyes betrayed him, set within his face like hardened jelly. Old, tired and scared.

‘Thanks, Kal!’ The co-host’s voice echoed around her fishbowl-like mask. ‘We’re delighted to introduce our newest contestant, veteran of the movie world, star in over two hundred features, Mr Tom –’

Kenny synced his cell with the Box, switched it off.

‘Hey, what did you do that for?’ King protested. ‘I told you, I was watching that!’

Kenny pointed at the body on the floor.

‘Forget the fucking box!’ he barked. ‘I can’t believe you just killed a man!’

But King remained unfazed.

‘Kenny-boy,’ he said, shrugging, ‘this is what we do.’ He kicked the body, checking that the man was definitely dead, then asked, ‘Do you know who this is?’

Kenny didn’t. He’d just come along for the ride, up for some wallet or purse grabs. Fishing for cells, maybe, passing them onto Charles 7 for hacking. He was even game for the odd break-in or two, but this was never part of the plan.

‘Geordie Mac. Biggest fucking dealer in Lark. Likes to think of himself as a service to the community and all that bullshit. Yet look at where he lives?’ King drew one hand across Geordie’s plush Titanic Quarter apartment. ‘Capitalist pig!’ he spat. ‘Dirty bastard’s servicing himself, no one else. He ain’t no friend of King’s!’

Kenny hated this kind of talk. But King was on a roll, referring to himself in the third person. Now he had killed a man and Kenny was accessory to it. And Kenny knew exactly how that would roll: they would both be executed, if caught – regardless of who caught them, the goons or McBride. This shit would attract a lot of attention.

Kenny suddenly felt very unwell. He began to retch, clammy hands reaching to cover his mouth. He stooped and, still retching, pushed his way through the door leading to the hallway.

Kenny bolted down one flight of stairs, left the apartment block, ducked around the corner into an alleyway.

Another retch, the puke now heavy and warm in his mouth. He released it in the direction of an old, neglected skip, rubbed his mouth, then let himself slide down a nearby wall.

He blew some air out, looked up.

Geordie’s apartment was one of the newer skyblocks. Similar blocks surrounded it, their plastic and aluminium exteriors pointing to the sky, casting shadows as far as Kenny could see. It was hard to know whether it was night or day with most of the sky secluded. And that was a good thing.

He stood up, looking to both exits from the alleyway. Apart from a scraggy old street cat, there was no one around.

Thankfuck, Kenny thought.

This wasn’t Tomb Street; a man puking ‘round these parts was something you’d remember.

‘Where are you?’ It was King’s voice.

Kenny left the alleyway, finding his partner standing outside Geordie Mac’s block.

A large silver billboard drifted by, its screen completely filled by the face of a woman. Kenny froze, thinking it was some new SLAM cam patrolling the streets, seeking out crims. But then the face smiled, a brand name running across the screen. Just a billboard running an ad for cigarettes.

King smiled, showing off some bag he’d found.

‘What the fuck’s that?’ Kenny asked.

‘Goodies,’ said King. ‘Found a stash under the bed. First place I checked.’ His eyes widened, his voice now a hoarse whisper, ‘Man, the street value of this shit will keep us sweet for the next fucking decade!’

Kenny’s brow furrowed.

‘You’re going to sell it?’

‘We’re going to sell it,’ King corrected him. ‘Remember, we’re partners now, bud!’

How could Kenny forget?

‘We’ll start by offloading some to that junkie whore who was calling Geordie on his cell.’

‘Oh God, you can’t be serious,’ Kenny lamented.

An ad for DEATHSTAR was running on the billboard now. It showed a list of casualties and their popularity percentages. Kenny half-expected his own name to be added to the list.

‘Easy money,’ King said. ‘She’ll probably not even notice we aren’t her usual guys. She’ll just take the dope, no questions asked.’

‘But what if she does notice? And what if she wants to make something of it?’ Kenny was thinking of McBride. Of what would happen if she squealed on them, maybe hearing Geordie’s murder reported on the Box.

‘Well then,’ King said. ‘We’ll just have to make something right back at her.’

THREE

He didn’t know how long he’d been awake. He could have been lying for hours, half in and out of sleep, maybe too scared to fully wake up. Either way, Johnny felt like shit. His tongue was dry and scratchy, his mouth tasted like a sewer.

The piercing drone of techno filled his ears.

Johnny sat up, ventured a look around the room. A merciless light burned his eyes, bleeding through the crudely hung blinds. He’d been lying on a mattress, in a tiny studio apartment that he vaguely remembered entering. There were clothes everywhere, as if the place had been ransacked while he slept.

A small, blonde girl sat by the open window. She was smoking, her cigarette hand shaking. She looked over as he pulled himself up.

‘Hey,’ she said, reaching to turn her Box down. ‘You’re awake.’

‘Who are you?’ he asked.

‘I get that a lot,’ she said. Her voice was flat, monotone. She flicked her cigarette out the window. ‘But it’s okay. Your wife or girlfriend don’t need to know ‘bout last night.’

‘Last night?’

Johnny squinted against the light.

‘Or your boyfriend. I get a few fags. It is Tomb Street, after all.’

She didn’t seem old enough to be talking like this: that was the first thing that struck Johnny. The second thing, and this hit him like a knee to the groin, was that she seemed to be talking to him as if they had done something last night. And what was worse, Johnny couldn’t for the life of him remember a single fucking thing to contest that.

‘I’ve got to –’

‘Go?’ she asked. ‘Not before you cough up.’

He looked at her as if she was joking, but her cell was flashing, ready to sync.

She wanted payment?

Johnny pulled himself up.

The girl stood in front of him, blocking his way. For a second Johnny thought she was going to touch him, maybe try and rekindle whatever it was they had supposedly done last night.

‘I need to use the bathroom,’ he said.

‘First door on the right,’ she said, as he stumbled past her.

Johnny closed the door behind him and locked it quickly, afraid she might try to follow him.

The bathroom was even more of a mess than the rest of the apartment. Towels lay strewn across a sparsely tiled floor. What appeared to be blood . . . and maybe shit . . . stained the walls. Last year’s calendar hung from a nail on the wall. A toothpaste tube lay in the sink, next to a syringe.

Johnny swallowed hard.

Oh God, he thought to himself, running his hands through his hair.

He fell back on the side of the bath. He noticed a mirror and lifted it, checking his appearance, making sure that it was still Johnny Lyon’s face there; that he hadn’t somehow jumped into someone else’s body like some real-life VR blip. He looked awful. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d shaved, changed his clothes or washed. He could smell himself.

His eyes welled up. Johnny stifled his sobbing with one hand. He couldn’t believe he was here: hardly two weeks since Becky was laid in her grave.

Johnny pulled himself to his feet and reached for the bath tap to clean his face, but no water came from it.

He heard knocking.

His body tensed.

He thought the knock came against the bathroom door but it was from outside the apartment.

Johnny listened. He heard the girl go to the door, opening it. He heard male voices. They seemed to enter the apartment.

Johnny quietly checked the bathroom door finding it locked tight. He breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t want anyone to find him here; he wanted to leave, like a thief in the night, and forget all about this place.

He could hear the voices more clearly, now in the main living area.

‘You’re late. And where’s Geordie?’ (her voice).

‘Anyone else here?’ (one of the male voices, ignoring her question).

‘No,’ she lied. ‘Just me.’

Silence then a rustling noise.

‘That all?’ she said.

‘Are you kidding me?’ one of the males said. He spoke in a lazy southern accent. Koy Town, maybe.

‘This isn’t what I normally get.’ Her voice again.

‘Well, you should have synced us cash, sweetheart, not given us plastic,’ Southern replied. ‘This card will need hacking and that means Charles 7. And Charles don’t work for nothing, you know.’

The other man’s voice came quieter, less aggressive: ‘Johnny Lyon,’ he said, as if reading the name.

It took Johnny a moment to realise that was his name. He checked his back pocket, finding his wallet. There was no card in it.

Fuck!

‘I want to talk to Geordie,’ the girl said.

‘Geordie’s not working tonight,’ the quieter male replied.

‘He’ll talk to me. Call him now and ask him. He’ll tell you what I normally get. We have a deal.’

‘No can do,’ came Southern.

‘I ALWAYS GET –’ she started, her voice suddenly furious.

But she wasn’t allowed to finish. There was a hard slap, followed by the sound of her body falling to the floor.

‘You’ll get what’s coming to you,’ Southern sneered.

Silence followed. Johnny heard a sniffling sound, probably her, but nothing else.

‘Maybe you need to bed more Johns,’ Southern goaded.

The other man mumbled something, his voice nervous. There was commotion as the men moved back towards the door.

‘And clean shit up,’ Southern shouted. ‘Who’ll want to fuck you in a dive like this?’

The door opened then closed, Johnny listening as the voices faded down the corridor. He waited a few moments until he could hear nothing save the quiet sobbing in the main room. Then, gently, Johnny undid the lock and stepped out of the bathroom.

He found her still on the floor, her mouth bleeding. Tears were running down her face, diluting the blood. She suddenly reminded him of Becky in the hospital; her washed out face; the stifled breathing. Johnny felt a sting across his heart.

‘What are you looking at?’ she barked.

Her tiny hands gathered the spilled contents of her plastic bag. Johnny went to help, but she pushed him away.

‘No!’ she cried, glaring up at him.

Her eyes were dead. They passed through Johnny like he wasn’t really there; like he was a figment of her imagination or some persistent ghost.

She brushed the remnants of brown powder into the bag. Found an old cardigan on the floor and retrieved it, wrapping her stash in it, pulling the whole lot against her chest.

She looked up again, challenging Johnny.

‘I –’ he started.

‘Just fucking go,’ she ordered.

He paused, not quite sure what to do. Then he turned, made his way through the debris on the floor, opened the door, and left.

FOUR

Charles 7 was just closing up for the night when two faces appeared at the door of his tech repair shop. He recognised them both; couple of yahoos named King and Kenny. Mostly harmless, save a little card swiping. Easy money for little work.

He was zoning but that meant nothing: a tech hack like Charles was always zoning. He didn’t even need a wiretap. Three coils were permanently attached to his head, their plastic wires entangled within his dreads, jacked into his very brain.

Charles unlocked the door with his cell, letting the two men in.

The older yahoo, King, threw a card across the counter.

‘Need it swiped, Charles. You good for it?’

The VR was rocking. Charles could feel its doll run a hand through his hair. She was beautiful; a Latino girl wearing nothing but a short latex skirt, legs wrapped around his hips like two lithe snakes.

An involuntary gasp escaped the tech hack’s mouth.

The two yahoos looked at each other.

‘What is it?’ King said. He pointed at the card. ‘Something wrong with it, bro?’

Charles shook his head, smiled.

The doll was loosening his belt now and he felt a slight tingle rise up his thighs.

He lifted the card from the table, ran it through his fingers then slid it into the tech bleed next to him. The keys of the device immediately lit up.

Charles allowed one hand to reach under the counter, finding the doll’s hair, working her as she gave him head.

With the other hand, he began tapping various combinations of characters on the tech bleed keyboard, battling against the card’s security.

A small screen showed him the account details of the card.

Charles read the name: Johnny Lyon. He was good with names. Didn’t know this cat, though. Not that it mattered. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d hacked one client as a job for another.

Charles bled the card within minutes, but left it in the device until the VR ran its course, ending in a light but enjoyable orgasm. As the two men watched on, Charles raised his hand to his mouth, chewing his knuckle until the moment passed. Then he pulled the card from the tech and handed it to King.

He wiped a little perspiration from his brow.

‘Synced the usual sum . . . including my fee,’ he said, still recovering. ‘Set up a temp account for you . . . It’ll close within an hour so . . . be sure to grab the cash ASAP.’

‘Will it trace?’

It was Kenny speaking. Charles suddenly felt a real bad vibe off the kid.

‘It’s clean. Once the cash drains from the temp account, it’ll bleed the trace automatically. Little bit of viral wizardry that I created. Don’t ask.’

‘He wasn’t going to,’ King said. He reached his hand across the counter. ‘Charles, pleasure as always.’

The bag around his shoulder shifted as King’s hand extended, a sizable package slipping from its open zip and landing on the floor.

Charles peered over the counter. The package had split, brown dust spilling out.

King stopped to sweep the dust into his hands, Kenny falling to his knees to help.

‘You boys dealing?’ Charles asked.

King looked up.

‘Might be. Want some?’

‘Jesus, King! How many people we gonna tell?!’ Kenny protested.

Charles shook his head.

‘Don’t do drugs. Never have.’

King laughed.

‘Says the man with three wires in his head.’ He stood up, leaving Kenny to finish scooping. ‘Charlie-Boy, you’re every bit as hooked to that shit,’ he swung his hand, pointing out the many pieces of tech hanging from the ceiling of Charles’ shop, ‘as any junkie I’ve met. So don’t go preaching to me, Padre.’

‘Will that be all today, boys?’ Charles snapped.

‘Sure is. But we’ll see you again, Charlie Boy. You can bet on it.’

‘Can’t wait,’ Charles said.

King moved towards the door, paused, looked back at Charles.

‘And go easy on that VR shit,’ he said. ‘Can’t be good for you.’

Kenny pulled at King’s sleeve.

‘Come on!’ he said. ‘And shut the fuck up, would you?!’

Yeah, thought Charles. Shut the fuck up.

FIVE

Johnny lived in the south eastern part of the city, known as the River Quarter. It ran alongside Lark’s River Lag.

Alt, the corporation Johnny worked for, employed many of the folks who lived nearby. Its water plant provided hydropower, generating heat and electricity for a good part of Maal’s population. As he neared home, Johnny could hear the low hum of turbines, the hiss of water as it bled through the plant’s system.

He lived in one of Alt’s economy blocks. It was a cheap and cheerful perk of his job. It would normally be a thirty minute walk from Tomb Street but took a little longer when feeling as delicate as Johnny did. He could have taken the underground, done it in five, but he needed the walk to clear his head.

He arrived at his apartment, opening the door. The lights came on, automatically syncing to his cell.

He suddenly remembered the credit card.

Johnny flipped his cell open, spread its screen. He inputted his security details, accessing his bank’s website. Called up the relevant statements. There had been a withdrawal via his card to the tune of three hundred dollars. Today’s date. Funds had been transferred online.

The fuckers had hacked him.

Johnny searched for details of the receiving account, finding it had been swiftly closed after the transfer. No account, bar his own, could be traced. Johnny cursed, banging his fist on the nearby wall.

He cancelled the card. Damage limitation. Shouldn’t have had the fucking thing anyway. Cards were bad news: everyone knew that. Handy if you lost your cell but risky all the same. At least with a cell, you had security: most would only respond to pre-set fingerprints or voices; shutting down if a different user tried to interact. Cards, on the other hand, were simple, basic, archaic, little bastards.

Johnny set his cell down, walked through the living area and entered the kitchen.

His fan immediately kicked into action, its whirring motion making him a little dizzy.

A bunch of flowers lay dead and unwrapped in the sink.

The smell of decaying food was overbearing and Johnny covered his mouth before opening the fridge. A plastic bottle of milk, the most likely culprit. Johnny lifted it out of the fridge and poured its thick, pungent contents down the sink.

He went to toss the empty carton, then realised his trash can was full to overflowing. It wasn’t smelling too healthy either.

Johnny sat the empty carton on top of the fridge and went to leave the kitchen.

He spotted the bottle of JD. An empty glass sat on the bench nearby, taunting him. Johnny lifted the bottle, quickly pouring a small helping of JD. Just something to take the edge off