Geoff Ryman - Lust Or No Harm Done

Never had words of his sounded so much like a creek running dry.

'I would like to say thank you.'

The team glanced at each other. Ebru said it. 'Maybe later, Michael. When the project ends, the last day or something.'

'OK,' said Michael. His hands did something awkward in mid-air. 'OK, thanks, gang.'

They started to file out.

'Oh. One other thing. Um. We really have a lot of data. And I was wondering if we really need, need any more. Which would mean… I want us to set this last batch of chicks free.'

That was enough to make Ebru stop and turn around. 'Oh that is a good idea,' she said, without any tonal variation in her voice.

'Well, they're such beautiful little things, and we've got a lot of data and it just seems such a shame

Oh God, oh no. He could feel his face. It was crumpling at the corners of his mouth, and his cheek was twitching up towards his eyes. He was starting to cry, and he had no real idea why.

It is a very strange sensation to break down in public and for that public to stare back at you stonily, completely unmoved by anything like sympathy. Cry, you bastard, their eyes seemed to say. Cry for your little project.

'We could just let them go, in the park?' He was begging.

Ebru said, 'That is illegal.'

'It'll be an illegal little party.' Michael bounced in his seat, trying to communicate that it would be naughty and fun.

'It's stupid, they'll die, it isn't even kind,' said Ebru and turned and walked out. Shafiq shuffled away. Hugh said, 'I'll get going on the photographs.' Emilio said, smiling but with a direct gaze, 'Whatever you're on, Michael. Stop taking it.'

They processed the chicks without even telling Michael they were doing it. They did it very quickly, and neatly. Michael went into the photography room. Hugh was photographing as before, but Ebru was staining samples.

'Those are fresh,' said Michael.

'We have to do it while they're young, Michael. Otherwise they will be too mature to compare with the other samples.'

'I asked you not to do that.'

'When?' Ebru turned and her gaze challenged him, challenged his right to give any orders at all. 'When did you ask me not to, Michael? We discussed your idea about setting them free and decided it was wrong. And we decided that it was stupid to waste them, and so we follow proper procedure.' Her hand made an involuntary little wave, sweeping him away. 'We will do everything in order, Michael. You don't have to do a thing.'

'I'm very unhappy you did that.'

Ebru held out her hands in something like helplessness. I am helpless to help you, Michael. I am helpless to say anything other than that your unhappiness makes no difference.

Michael had nothing else to do, so he typed all the official notices of non-renewal. He went over the accounts and planned the new expenditure. That is the kind of thing a good little boy does when admonished. There is no coming back from being justly admonished by your staff, and then being defied by them.

He worked alone in his office, deliberately until late. No one popped in to say good night, see you tomorrow. At 8.30 pm he did a round of the lab, turning out a few lights. In the reception box, the night guard was pleased to see him. He was a Londoner, ex-Cockney, a vanishing breed. 'Hello, sir,' he said, perking up. 'I haven't seen you this late in ages. How are you, sir?' He sounded genuinely pleased to see Michael.

'I decided to give up all that staying late.'

'Oh, very wise, sir, very wise. My wife says the same about me at my age. But the money's good, and between you and me, it gets me out from under her feet.'

It was terrible to be treated with friendliness and respect.

The leaves had begun to fall in Archbishop's Park, and they had blown across the street, crunching underfoot. Walking back to Waterloo seemed to take forever; he shuffled with dreamlike slowness. He'd fucked it. He had well and truly fucked it. He stood stricken on the platform at Waterloo, wanting to hide.

He walked back to his old flat near Goodge Street on automatic pilot. He got all the way to looking up at his old window, and seeing his ceiling illuminated through it and a moving shadow, he thought oh good, Phil's home.

Then he realized no, he's not. No one is at home. Home is over, home is gone. My animal brain just walked me back here.

His animal heart stood outside the building yearning upwards at the light on the old ceiling. I want my job back, my beautiful project. I want my partner, my flat, my peace of mind. I want my old life back.

Too late, Michael, you're not going to get it.

The idea of walking back to Goodge Street tube, and going all the way to Camden, made him close his eyes with fatigue. He wondered if he could just ask the Miazgas to let him back in, for ten minutes' snooze. He just wanted to clear his head. But he would have to explain to them, and worry them, and involve them again in his life.

So he turned, dazed as if on painkillers, and dragged his way back to Goodge Street station. Everything around him – the Eisenhower Security Center, the cenotaph in front of it – was like reassuring old friends seen after a divorce. There was the Reject Shop… no, it wasn't. It was now something called Cargo. Change swept over everything like a tide; turn your back and it's as over as the First World War.

Michael tried to find the flower. The flower was whatever he had touched when Luis had left him. The joy in the world, in himself. I have seen it. It was real. It can come when things go wrong.

It's strongest when you have been brave and strong – not when you've fucked up, messed everyone over, lost it. Not when you've thrown your life out of the window.

There was now a porn shop on Tottenham Court Road.

Well there would be; they had been moving north out of Soho for some time, as real estate got too valuable even for the sex industry, and only cappuccino, it seemed, could turn a penny, or rather, enough pennies. GAZE the WORD the shop called itself. There were ribbons of coloured plastic across the door. There always were, in porn shops. Like ketchup bottles always looking the same.

'Well hello, Professor,' said a voice.

Someone was standing in the doorway. Michael blinked; it took him a moment to recognize who it was.

The guard from Goodge Street station. He was wearing a fancy T-shirt, the kind you're not supposed to tuck in, and the same blue security trousers that made his legs and butt look somehow bolshy.

'Have a look round, don't be shy,' the Guard said. He looked chunkier. Perhaps he had been working out, but his mouth still habitually sneered. He held apart the plastic strips as if opening a dressing gown.

'Come on. I'm sure I've got something for you.' He emphasized 'you', as if he knew and understood Michael.

Michael had no direction, no reason to do anything else, so he went inside. It was bright like Christmas, full of colour.

'I expect you're surprised to see me here,' said the Guard. 'I suppose you could say I found my metier.' He grinned cheekily. 'Here, have a look at these.'

He handed Michael video boxes covered with coloured computer printout. The images were of naked men.

'I get these from round the world,' he said. He dipped down behind the counter, and pulled out a folder. He opened it up, to show clear wallets full of more laser-printed images.

Rancho Rauncho, one of them boasted. Starring Spike Harden and Mustapha Most.

'American,' he said proudly. 'Uncensored. You won't find this sort of stuff for sale anywhere else in the West End. Not at these prices. Beautiful stuff.'

Michael noticed: he's wearing a wedding ring.

'Look at this. Now this is the guvnor… Max Schnarr. He goes all round the world: Russia, Eastern Europe, Quebec, all sorts of strange places. Picks up all the best-looking men himself, and they're so besotted with him that they let him make a film. He's in ' em himself. This one's from Venezuela.'