Geoff Ryman - Lust Or No Harm Done

Michael sighed. 'OK. Well. Your contract holds us both to a minimum of a month's notice, and I'm going to need you to work out your notice. Basically, we need to audit what we've got in terms of reports, generate any new report forms, and train up Hugh and Ebru to use them.'

Emilio looked discomfited. 'If… if I finish all that before the month is up, could I go? It is three years' work, Michael, guaranteed.'

'I'll think about it,' said Michael. He meant no. 'Thanks for letting me know.'

The day darkened, Michael slowed down. The truth was that he had destroyed his project. This truth did not go away like an unwelcome guest. The truth stayed, like a dysfunctional family, like your inescapable self. Michael hid his face.

And when Michael got back home, the flat smelled of roast beef. The entire ground floor was in order. The books were on shelves. Places had been found for all of Luis's canvases, bags of clay, splattered wood, old newspapers, plastic ice cream containers, rope and bits of tyre.

Nick was pleased with his work. 'A lot of it's upstairs if you want to go through it. Personally, I'd just chuck the lot. Have you insured this place?'

'Yes, why?'

Nick took Michael's shoulder bag to hang up. 'Because if your friend has even started to sell his stuff, each one of those paintings is worth at least three hundred pounds. And there's forty of them. That'll be worth twelve k. You like roast potatoes?'

At dinner Nick was full of schemes. 'You should do this place up and sell it. Those are Regency banisters. You could do up the whole place as Regency. It's just opposite the tube, it's got a roof garden, only one point of access on the street, no neighbours. If you put in a second lockable door at the head of the staircase, this place would be worth three hundred, four hundred thousand. Hell, two bedrooms, Camden Town, I tell you, a year from now it would be worth half a million. If you needed help doing it up, I'm pretty handy, as it happens.'

'It might be a good idea.'

'It's a brilliant idea. It'll be work, mind you.'

'I'll think about it.' It was what he had said to Emilio. There was something Michael didn't like.

'Come on, get up off your arse, this place will never get back in order if you don't get into some habits. Why don't you let me wash, and you put away? You know where things go?'

So rather neatly, as a team, they got the dishes washed. Nick soaped them lavishly, rinsed them in water so hot it steamed, and shook them.

'This thing of yours, this miracle,' he said, scrubbing between the teeth of Michael's forks. 'You say you can call up anybody? I mean, we could call up James Dean? He was gay. He'd be happy to do anything. From the sound of things, he did.' Nick chuckled darkly. He rinsed a glass. 'People would pay to see him do it as well.'

'What, do you mean make a film?'

'We could do, yeah.' As if it were Michael's idea.

Michael had an answer. He shook his head. 'The instant he went back, the film would show nothing. And that I do know for certain.'

Nick seemed absorbed in polishing a wine glass. He held it up to the light. 'So you mean they can't be photographed?'

'The image only stays as long as they are here. Every trace of them goes. Think of it as a fast death. Like I said, being an Angel's a shortcut. It's what happens to all of us. After we're gone, the children sell the house, the new owners tear out the garden to make a driveway, and throw away our old photographs. It just happens quicker to Angels.'

Nick tried to look philosophical. He succeeded in looking like a contestant on a quiz show. 'Yeah,' he said, his brows touching. He put a plate in the rack. 'So. If they hang around, these Angels, their photographs stick around as well?'

Michael imagined them, hundreds of Angels hanging around Camden Town so people could see them wanking in films. 'That,' said Michael, 'would be like a run in reality.'

'Reality's already running, mate,' said Nick, with eyes like cash registers.

And after dinner Michael found himself caught in a fleshy hug. 'Hmmm,' said the Guard, kissing him as if he were still washing plates. There was something awkward in the way he did it; his arms pushed Michael away as much as they held him. Nick leaned back and looked at Michael, in what could have been affection, if it hadn't looked appraising.

'I'm into a lot of things,' the Angel promised, rubbing his crotch against Michael's. You couldn't fault him for being over-subtle.

There was one side of Michael's sensuality which had not been explored of late. He crunched a bitter pill, and Nick offered up his buttocks. Michael was surprised. The things that were unattractive on the front of Nick – his pale plumpness – were beautiful from the back. His buttocks were white, flawless mounds. Though his body gave evidence that it had been penetrated many times before, Michael was aware from the clenching of Nick's jaw that it was not comfortable for him. But that was not what Nick said.

'Shall I stop?' asked Michael, pulling back.

'Naw, naw, it's great, go on.'

Pumping from Viagra, headachy and breathing thinly because the drug had swelled up the inside of his nose, Michael came, squirting from a penis that was artificially clogged with swollen veins. His cock felt like a cake decorator squeezing out icing from a tiny hole. The orgasm kept coming, as it were, until his balls ached and he felt drained, and he actually wanted it to end. Someone Michael didn't even like had just given him the most thorough orgasm of his life.

So Michael woke up once more with Nick in the flat. This time, Nick was putting away his clothes. 'You,' said Nick, 'need to do your laundry.'

Yeah maybe, but it's my laundry, thought Michael.

'You have a washing machine?'

Michael knew what was coming. 'No.'

'Well, I can go to Coin Operated while you're at work if you like.'

'What is it with you? I can do my own laundry.'

'Do it yourself, if it suits you.'

Michael hated the whole business of going to the laundry. 'I'll give you some money.'

'Wouldn't want to rob the coin-op, would we?' Nick grinned.

That night Michael found all his socks individually stored in transparent plastic bags, and sorted by colour, blue, black, brown, white.

'Why did you do that?' Michael demanded, feeling trespassed upon.

Nick was cooking again: 'Stops you losing them, mate. Otherwise they get separated and nobody needs a drawerful of half pairs of socks. Trick of me Mum's. You can say thank you if you like.'

Michael felt helpless. There was absolutely no way to say that it wasn't useful. You could even see which colour each pair was.

'Just… just ask me next time you're going to change something.'

Nick bowed. 'To hear is to obey, oh Master of the Lamp. Incidentally, I'll be polite about the contents of your fridge, but let's just say that some of it had prices on in shillings and pence. It's all still in the bin, and if you want to go through it, please feel free.' He canoodled his way forward and gave Michael a kiss. He was actually wearing an apron. It was like watching a character in EastEnders who the writers have decided would go suddenly gay.

At dinner he helped himself only after first serving Michael. 'You don't use it for anything do you? This miracle of yours.'

'I get my socks put in plastic bags.'

'Well there's a thrill. Look, why don't you let me make a few suggestions.'

'You did.'

'Well, let's make some more, see who we can get in here. It's such a waste not to use it. What? You go and ask any other bloke in the kingdom, gay or straight, what they'd do if they could have anybody they wanted and they'd tell what they'd do soon enough, I can tell you.'

'And that would be what they say. Not what they'd do.'