Филип Керр - The Second Angel

‘Shut up, Rimmer.’

‘And when would you like this little contract carried out?’

‘Immediately.’

‘Right.’

‘Only make sure that it’s done well away from these offices. And another thing. Be discreet. If there’s any hint of our involvement, you’ll be the next one dead. Do you understand?’

‘It’s as clear as blue eyes on a bright day, sir.’ Rimmer pocketed the bloodstained toothpick and rubbed his hands with enthusiasm. It had been a while since he’d been ordered to kill anyone. The last time, it was a girl from the Accounts Department who’d managed to get herself infected with P2. If it hadn’t been for that he might have raped her as well. Of course, there was nothing to stop him raping Dallas’s wife. After all, it was the child who was sick, not the mother. And rape was one of the real perks of the job. Nothing to do with sex. Everything to do with the exercise of power. That was what the job was all about. Maybe he’d vamp her blood, too, and sell it on the black market. Make it look like that was the motive for killing her.

‘I’ll be off then,’ he said, already smiling in anticipation of a job well done.

‘Leave the door open behind you,’ ordered King. ‘Let some fresh air in. While you’ve been in here, the smell’s gotten worse.’

‘That’s not me. That’s just your conscience. You’ll get used to it. I know I did.’

‘Get out,’ ordered King.

Sometimes at night, Rimmer liked to get in his car and let it drive him out of the Zone and into one of the city’s more insalubrious quarters, which were mostly inhabited by people with the disease. It gave him a pleasurable feeling of hope to be around the hopeless. He particularly liked to visit the clubs and the bars that were patronized by the city’s pariah class, those whose P2 status had criminalized. He told himself that this was the romantic bohemian in him, that like some crappy old poet or painter, he was merely seeking out the more authentically existential life experience. But the truth was more ordinary. Rimmer just felt more comfortable mixing with the city’s lowlife. And undeniably, being in this world gave him a feeling of power, for Rimmer preferred to recruit those who carried the virus in the felonious aspects of his work. People who were immunologically compromised were usually less principled about what they were prepared to do for a few cash credits. Morality had meaning only for the rich and the healthy, who were, of course, coterminous. In Rimmer’s experience, P2 made potential murderers of almost everyone.

Even so, some were more lethal than others, and at a club called the Mea Culpa, near the city’s port area, he eventually found the woman he was looking for. To his certain knowledge, Demea had murdered at least forty people, including several children. That she was also extremely attractive made the pleasure Rimmer took in her company all the more enjoyable. And had it not been for the virus, he might even have let her suck him. [37] While latex condoms have proved to be an effective barrier to the transmission of viruses such as HIV, they have dismally failed to prevent the spread of P2. The virus is a very small molecule, much smaller than HIV, and typically less than a micron in diameter; even double-dipped latex compounds contain microscopic holes averaging one micron. Recently condoms were tested in an in vitro system simulating key physical conditions that can influence viral particle leakage through condoms during oral sex. A suspension of fluorescent-labeled microspheres modeled P2 in semen, and condom leakage was tested spectrofluorometrically. Leakage of P2-sized particles through latex condoms was detectable in 65 percent of all condoms tested.

‘There you are at long last,’ said Rimmer. ‘You’ve been hard to find in here.’ And it was easy to see why. Demea was wearing an expensive dress made out of synthetic Melanophore, a material that imitated the skin of a chameleon. [38] Synthetic Melanophore is different from photochromic or morphing materials. Melanophore disperses or concentrates color in molecules containing smart pigment granules. Color change is determined by ambient light and the wearer’s body temperature. Melanophore can actually change color to match whatever background it comes into contact with. That the chameleon can do the same is a commonly held misconception. ‘To say that you fit right in here would be something of an understatement,’ he added, sitting down.

Until that moment, Demea’s dress had been colored black — like the walls, the ceiling, and the carpet — and silver — like the haphazard structure of cushioned tubular steel she lay on with the studied insouciance of a baroque Venus. But as Rimmer occupied the almost invisible black cushion beside her, the dress began to reflect the light blue of his Antimo silk suit.

‘Not so close,’ she drawled. ‘You’re spoiling my hue.’

‘Sorry,’ Rimmer grinned, and shifted a short distance away. He inspected the side of her dress for a moment and then said, ‘It’s all the same in the dark, you know.’

‘What is?’ Demea hardly looked at him.

‘Color. Decomposition of white light. Electromagnetic waves of a certain frequency. What color of drink can I buy you?’

‘Absinthe.’

‘Green,’ said Rimmer. ‘The color of hope. Although if my memory for art serves me right, the effect of the drink is rather less cheerful.’ He glanced around for a waitress, and since the club was almost empty, it wasn’t long before one came his way. She was naked, like all the waitresses in the Mea Culpa Club. That was another reason Rimmer liked going there.

‘Hi there,’ said the waitress. ‘What can I get you?’ She leaned back on the table in front of them and spread her legs so that Rimmer could hardly fail to notice the several rings that pierced her genitals.

‘Well, well,’ said Rimmer. ‘I see you’re married. To five guys.’ He smiled and the waitress smiled back. He was now in his element. No doubt there were some men who thought of mountains. Others of great waterfalls. But this was what Rimmer thought of when he brought to mind the sight he enjoyed most in the world. ‘Absinthe for the lady. And brandy for me.’

‘Thirty,’ said the waitress and, with a long fingernail on which a tiny hologram of a couple were forever making love, she tickled the rings meaningfully.

Rimmer rolled up a banknote and tugged it through her five piercings while the waitress watched patiently, as she was required to do by her employers.

‘Keep the change,’ he told her. ‘That is if you can find somewhere to put it.’

‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Be right back with your drinks.’

Rimmer watched her bare behind in retreat. ‘And she shall have music,’ he said, turning his attention back to Demea. ‘I like a bit of music. How about you?’

‘Don’t mind it.’

Rimmer removed a Sony Pinback from his ear and showed it to Demea as if to corroborate his assertion.

‘Of course, it’s not turned on right now,’ he said. ‘That would be rude. Just in case I miss anything.’ He paused. ‘Such as your stimulating conversation.’

Demea remained resolutely silent, and Rimmer wondered if she might be on some drug, but her sapphire-blue eyes seemed clear and alert enough. As Rimmer looked at her more closely, it seemed to him that she was actually watching the room, as if waiting for someone. He dropped the Pinback earpiece inside his pocket alongside its mate and the tiny playback unit.

‘These days, when I kill someone,’ Rimmer explained, ‘I almost always wear it. Just the one ear. I should hate to miss the sound of a gunshot, or a knife going in between two ribs, or a plea for mercy — never given.’