Филип Керр - The Second Angel

‘How did you find him anyway?’

‘I persuaded Dixy, his Motion Parallax assistant, to tell me.’

‘That can’t have been easy.’

Rimmer told her about the dog, Mersenne.

‘So then, no computer is an island, entire of itself, either,’ observed Ronica. ‘That’s interesting.’

‘I think Dixy was just programmed that way,’ said Rimmer, and pointed at the flashing routefinder. ‘Looks like we’re nearly there.’

‘Good. So promise me you won’t make a meal of it,’ she said. ‘The sooner you blow his brains out, the sooner we can get back to the Zone and healthy civilization. Just driving through this shit heap makes me feel like I’m going to catch something awful. Bubonic plague, Ebola, Lassa, smallpox.’

Rimmer laughed, as if enjoying her discomfort, but at the same time, he wondered how much of it was genuine. Even in her evening clothes and smelling as sweetly as any genetically engineered bloom, the well-muscled Ronica looked more than equal to the task at hand.

‘I thought I would read him a bit from the Bible first,’ teased Rimmer. ‘Execution style. The book of Exodus, I think. That always offers a fairly conclusive text.’

‘Not much consolation there, I’d have thought.’

‘Precisely my idea. So what’s your favorite bit in the Bible?’

Ronica shrugged. ‘I dunno. The head of John the Baptist? No, wait. Gershon’s foreskin. That got hacked off with a stone. Pretty much anyone’s foreskin, I guess. That’s usually my favorite bit. In the Bible. And anywhere else.’

‘I think I’m beginning to understand just what the director sees in you,’ admitted Rimmer.

The car drew up to the Clostridium Hotel. Rimmer switched off the engine and sat back in his seat. ‘Well,’ he said, with the air of a man who might have just arrived somewhere nice for a holiday. ‘We’re here.’

‘I’ve got to pee,’ said Ronica.

‘What?’

‘I’m nervous. I’ve never seen anyone killed before.’

‘You can certainly pick your places.’

‘I already did,’ she said, opening the passenger door. ‘I’ll squat down here, in the road beside the car, just as Marie Antoinette did on the conciergerie cobbles when she saw her waiting tumbril. Only stay in the car until I’ve finished please, Rimmer.’

He nodded and, remaining seated, looked politely away as Ronica got out of the car, closed the door, and then lifted her skirt.

Swiftly she fetched the little Colt Matahari automatic from the holster between her legs — and then had a pee for appearance’s sake before pocketing the gun and standing up straight.

‘All right,’ she said, tapping on the toughened window. ‘I’m ready now.’

Rimmer got out of the car.

‘Let’s go and kill him,’ she added eagerly.

He walked around the car, eyed the still steaming snow where she had urinated, and sniffed the air like a dog.

‘Asparagus,’ he said. ‘For your supper. Quite unmistakable.’

Ronica felt herself blush with embarrassment. She was going to enjoy killing him. Blowing Rimmer’s brains out would count as a service to humanity.

Rimmer turned his back on her and trudged down the narrow street toward the hotel’s front door. ‘When we get in there,’ he said, ‘you can do the talking. Let’s see how clever you really are.’

‘Afraid you’ll fuck it up again, is that it?’ she asked, finding it difficult to keep up with him in her expensive Federico Ingannevole evening shoes, which were not made for walking, least of all in snow.

‘You’re the one who seems to lack the stomach for this, not me,’ he said, sniffing the air again.

‘That reminds me. What blood type are you, Rimmer?’

Rimmer stopped in his tracks and, turning around, fixed her with a look of disdain. ‘Don’t tell me you believe that EPTR [73] Erythrocytic Personality Trait Rating. The pseudo-science of blood temperaments, based on a taxonomy of personality based on blood types. EPTR draws upon Buddhist beliefs, as well as the work of Theophrastus, Hippocrates, Karl Landsteiner, Leon Bourdel, and Hans Eysenck, and was ‘discovered’ by J. Will Mott (1987–2041). EPTR has been challenged by a number of hematologists and psychologists as having no empiric basis. bullshit?’

Ronica shrugged. ‘Why not?’

Rimmer shook his head and started walking again. ‘And the director said you were clever,’ he snorted.

‘Why shouldn’t there be some truth in it?’ argued Ronica. ‘There are over four hundred blood groups.’

‘But most people are just O or A. I can’t see how that helps to determine the kind of guy I am.’

‘So which are you, Rimmer?’

‘Neither. I’m AB.’

‘Interesting. Only three percent of people are AB.’

‘I know.’

‘A Universal Recipient. [74] In transfusion therapy, group AB recipients can receive all other ABO group red-cell components, because anti-A and anti-B antibodies are absent. Group AB red-cell components are infused only into group AB recipients. Group O recipients, on the other hand, can receive only Group O red cells, but can donate to any other group. Group O donors are known as Universal Donors. Means you’re full of internal contradictions, as you might expect of someone with your blood group history.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘The melancholic type: quiet, unsociable, reserved, pessimistic, rigid, and moody. Not to mention greedy and manipulative. How am I doing, Rimmer? Recognize yourself?’

Rimmer didn’t reply.

‘Me, I’m group O. Makes me relaxed and sociable, outgoing, poor on details, but with good leadership qualities.’

‘I thought all blacks were group B.’

‘Phenotype frequencies vary across different racial groups. The B phenotype is not exclusive to blacks, merely more common. Talking of misconceptions, you should get your chart done. That is, if you’re planning to marry and have children. Although I can tell you that we’re not the right mix. O’s should stick to their own type.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Rimmer as they neared the hotel’s front door. ‘But I’ll be even more glad to hear what story you’ve thought up to explain our imminent arrival here.’

‘Hey, just watch my relaxed group O style,’ said Ronica, leading the way through the door. ‘You’re about to see someone whose temperament includes the very essence, the sanguis of cool.’

They were met by a hyperbaric attendant, a tall black who stifled a yawn and nodded a silent greeting.

‘We’re from the Oxygen Institute,’ Ronica explained smoothly. ‘Checking free radicals.’

‘Free what?’ The attendant looked back at the glass-walled office from which he had just emerged, as if someone might come to his assistance, but there was no one else.

‘Unstable and reactive electrons,’ she said. ‘In this case, oxygen.’

‘Nobody told me you were coming,’ said the attendant, scratching his head.

‘You’re not supposed to have any prior knowledge,’ tutted Ronica. ‘That’s the whole point of the check.’

‘At...’ The attendant glanced at his watch. ‘At two-thirty in the morning?’

‘Middle of the night’s when people least expect us. When they’re able to offer the least amount of resistance. You know, I’m surprised no one told you about us before. We’ve been to quite a few hyperbaric hotels in this district.’

‘You have?’

‘You obviously have no idea who we are, do you?’

The attendant shrugged.

‘That’s okay.’ Ronica smiled patiently and began to walk around him as she went on with her patter. Rimmer had to admit she sounded pretty convincing, even in a floor-length lambskin coat and pretty shoes.