Charles Stross - The Atrocity Archives

Deliberately ignoring the bills, I get up and drag my suitcase upstairs. My room is much the way I left it, and I suddenly realise that I hate living this way: hate the second-hand furniture designed by aliens from Planet Landlord, hate sharing my personal space with a couple of hyperintelligent slobs with behavioural problems and explosive hobbies, hate feeling my future possibilities hemmed in by my personal vow of poverty-the signature on my Laundry warrant card. I drag the suitcase into my room through a fog of fatigue and mild despair, then open it and begin to sort everything into piles on the floor.

Something snuffles behind me.

I spin round so fast I nearly levitate, hand fumbling for a mummified monkey's paw that isn't there-then recognition cuts in and I breathe again. "You startled me! What are you doing in there?"

Just the top of her head is visible. She blinks at me sleepily. "What does it look like?"

I consider my next words carefully. "Sleeping in my bed?"

She pulls down the duvet far enough to yawn, mouth pink and grey in the dim light that filters through the new curtains. "Yeah. Heard you were due back today so I, mmm, pulled a sickie. Wanted to see you."

I sit down on the side of the bed. Mhari's hair is mousy-brown with blonde highlights she puts in it every few weeks; it's cut in short flyaway locks that tangle around my fingers when I run my hand over her scalp. "Really?"

"Yeah, really." A bare arm reaches out of the bedding, wraps around my waist, and pulls me down. "Been missing you. Come here."

I'm meaning to sort my dirty clothing into piles for the washing machine, but instead all my clothing ends up in a heap in the middle of the floor, and I end up in a heap under Mhari, who is naked under the duvet and seemingly intent on giving me a very warm welcome home, if not a rinse and tumble-dry. "What is this?" I try to ask, but she grabs my head and holds my mouth against one generously proportioned nipple. I get the message and shut up. Mhari is in the mood, and this is about the one situation in which our relationship functions smoothly. Besides, it's more than a week since the last time I've seen her, and being ambushed this way is the best thing that's happened to me in quite a while.

About an hour later, fucked-out and completely exhausted-to say nothing of sweaty-we're lying in a tangle on the bed (the duvet seems to have decided to join the washing pile) and she's making buzzing noises in the back of her throat like a cat. "What brought this on?" I ask.

"I needed you," she says, with the kind of innocent egotism that a cat could only envy. Grabs at my back: "Mmm. Hmm. Had a bad week."

"A bad week?" I'm practising being a good listener; it's usually opening my mouth that gets me into trouble with her.

"First there was a complete mess at the office: Eric was off sick and dropped the ball on a case he was handling and I had to pick up the pieces. Ended up working late three nights running. Then there was a party at Judy's. Judy got me drunk, introduced me to a friend of hers. He turned out to be a real shit, but only after-"

I roll away. "I wish you wouldn't do this," I hear myself saying.

"Do what?" She looks at me, hurt.

I sigh. "Never mind." Never fucking mind, I try not to say. I suddenly feel really dirty. "I'm going to have a shower," I say, and sit up.

"Bob!"

"Never mind." I get up, grab a dirty towel from the pile on the floor, and head for the bathroom to wash her off me.

Mhari has a problem: her problem is me. I should just tell her to fuck off and die, sever all links, refuse to talk to her-but she's good company when we're on speaking terms, she can push all my buttons correctly when we're in bed, and she can get right under my skin and leave me feeling about five and a half inches high. My problem is that she wants to trade me in on New Boyfriend, model 2.0, one with a fast car and a Rolex Oyster and prospects. (Warped senses of humour and dead-end Laundry postings are strictly optional.) She's permanently on the rebound, either toward me or away from me-I can't always tell which-and in between she uses me the way a cat uses a scratching post. Partying at Judy's place, for example: Judy is a mindless management functionary bimbo friend of hers who is somehow always impeccably turned out and manages to make me feel like a dirty little schoolboy, although she's far too polite to ever say anything. So when Mhari traps off with some double-glazing salesman she meets via Judy and he turfs her out of his bed the next morning, I'm supposed to be around as a friendly consolation fuck the next day.

My problem is that she doesn't seem to appreciate that I hate being on the receiving end of this. If I try to make a big deal of it she'll accuse me of being jealous and I'll end up feeling obscurely guilty. If I don't make a big deal of it she'll continue to act like I'm some kind of doormat. And who knows? Maybe I'm just being paranoid and she isn't looking around for Mr. New Boyfriend. (Yeah, and wild boars have been spotted in the holding pattern over Heathrow with an engine under each wing.)

I haven't had to chase any strangers out of my bed yet, but with Mhari around I keep wondering when it'll happen. The worst of it is, I don't want to just cut things dead; I'd rather she stopped playing games than she stopped seeing me. Perhaps it's self-deception, but I think we could make things work. Maybe.

I'm in the shower cubicle washing my hair when I hear the door open. "I do not appreciate hearing about your one-night stands," I say, eyes closed to avoid the sting of shampoo. "I don't understand why the fuck you hang around me when you're obviously so eager to find someone else. But will you please leave me alone for a bit?"

"Oops, sorry," says Pinky, and closes the door.

He's waiting on the landing when I finish in the bathroom; we studiously avoid each other's eyes. "Uh, it's okay to go into your room," he volunteers. "She's gone out."

"Oh good."

He hurries after me as I head downstairs. "She asked me to have a word with you," he calls breathlessly.

"That's fine," I say distantly. "Just as long as she isn't asking you to share my bed."

"She says you need to check out the alt.polyamory FAQ," he says, and cringes.

I switch the kettle on and sit down. "Do you really think I have a problem?" I ask. "Or does Mhari have a problem?"

He glances around, trapped. "You have incompatible lifestyle choices?" he ventures.

The kettle hisses like an angry snake. "Very good. Incompatible lifestyle choices is such a fucking civilised way of putting it."

"Bob, do you think she might be doing this to get your attention?"

"There are good ways and bad ways to get my attention. Whacking on my ego with a crowbar will get my attention, sure, but it's not going to leave me well disposed to the messenger." I pour more hot water into my mug of tea, then stand up and rummage in the cupboard. Ah, it's right where I left it. I upend a generous dollop of Wray and Nephew's overproof Jamaican rum into the mug and sniff: brown sugar crossed with white lightning. "The male ego is a curious thing. It's about the size of a small continent but it's extremely brittle. Drink?"

Pinky sits down opposite me, looking as if he's sharing the kitchen table with an unexploded bomb. "Why not look on the bright side?" he says, holding out a Coke glass for the rum.

"There's a bright side?"

"She keeps coming back to you," he says. "Maybe she's doing it to hurt herself?"

"To-" I bite off the snide reply I was working on. When Mhari gets depressed she gets depressed: I've seen the scars. "I'll have to think about that one," I say.

"Well, then." Pinky looks pleased with himself. "Doesn't that look better? She's doing it because she's depressed and hates herself, not because there's anything wrong with you. It's not a reflection on your virile manhood, you big hunk of beefcake. Go get yourself a one nighter of your own and she'll have to make her mind up what she wants."