Spares. Michael Marshall Smith
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the heap. In the news footage, Maxen looked the same as he always had: distant, a man who was always the other side of an LCD panel or cathode tube. It was some times hard to believe that he was anything more than a pattern of lights, moving across the face of New Richmond, always at one remove.
The next item said that Chief of Police McAuley was lobbying to relocate people out of 100 and fill it with concrete, to finally stop the plebs from accessing the higher floors. Cunning, I thought, and never mind that the real lowlife have fuck-off great houses on 185. The C of P in New Richmond is one of the world's premier dickheads, and also one of the best kickback receivers in the country. Never known to fumble a play.
The new hobby for the young and stupid was wall-diving: jumping out of upper-storey windows without a rope or parachute. And some woman had got psychoed and spread over twenty square yards of 92: the murderer had wrought ‘unspecified damage to her face’, and the cops were hopeful of an early arrest. Yeah, right.
Nothing much had changed.
Passing all the food stands wasn't easy. The one thing Ratchet hadn't been able to cook properly was burgers, and after five years I'd almost turned the idea of them into a religion. I took a turn off Main and walked some sidestreets until I reached the place I was going. The sign outside had been made bigger and more ostentatious, but apart from that the bar looked exactly the same. I stood outside for a moment, looking past the wooden window frames, stained deep brown with polish, at the dim pools of light within. I came here a lot, at one time, when things were different. Seeing it again made me feel old, and tired, and breathlessly sad.
Just as I was reaching for the door, something odd happened. I thought I felt a hand try to wheedle itself into my palm, down where it hung by my side. It was plump and warm, like the hand of an eight-year-old girl. I felt it try to pull me away.
As soon as I noticed it properly the feeling was gone, and though I turned and looked both ways up the sidestreet, there was no one there. I stood still for a moment, breathing shallowly, aware of a small tic under my left eye. So far, I'd managed to blank the things I should be feeling, but I knew I couldn't keep it up for ever. For the first time in years I wanted something which came in small rolls of foil, wanted it suddenly and completely with a need that defied all reason.
I forced myself to push open the door and walk into the bar. It was mainly empty, a few hopheads nodding over their drinks. I went straight through into the back area, which is smaller, cosier, and also where the owner tends to hang out.
‘Jack Randall,’ said a voice, and I turned.
Howie was sitting at one of the tables, piles of receipts and general administrative junk strewn all around him. That kind of stuff makes me want to go back to barter economy, but he lives for it. An unopened bottle of Jack Daniels was at his right elbow, next to a large bucket of ice and two empty glasses. He was slightly rounder, had lost a little hair and gained an alarming scar on his forehead, but apart from that he looked pretty much the same. He grinned at me affably, a picture of relaxation.
‘Guess you're not surprised to see me,’ I said.
‘To see you, no. To see you alive, always, and especially today. Dath? Paulie?’ Howie gave an upwards nod towards the couple of steroid abusers lurking round a table near the back. They rose and split up, one going to cover the front entrance, the other the back. I'm a cautious man, but Howie sleeps with a bazooka under his pillow. Dath nodded at me as he passed. ‘The guys at the back door gave me a call,’ Howie said, dropping a couple of cubes of ice into the glasses, and then filling both with whiskey. ‘Sounded like it had to be you.’
‘That's a big drink,’ I said, accepting a glass.
‘By whose standards? Come on Jack, I've seen you unconscious earlier than this. Time was you thought by nine o'clock the evening was getting old. You want any Rapt while you're here?’
I shook my head, silently cursing Howie for being able to read my mind. ‘I've cleaned up a little,’ I said.
He laughed. ‘You just think you have,’ he said, and lifted one of the glasses. ‘A man who lays it on like you did only ever goes on holiday.’
I chinked my glass against his and drank. Howie drained his in one, leaned back, and patted his stomach comfortably with both hands.
‘How's tricks?’ I asked, looking around the bar.
‘Tricky,’ he said. ‘But what about this? Couples, okay, they're always ringing each other up, inviting each other round for dinner. Sounds like a great idea at the time – some wine, fine conversation, a chance to peek down the other woman's blouse. But then the day starts to approach, and everyone's thinking Jesus H – why did we agree to this? The hosts are dreading all the admin – restocking the drinks cabinet, cooking fiddly food, making sure all the tubes of Gonorrhoea-Be-Gone in the bathroom are hidden. The guests are thinking about getting expensive cabs and babysitters and not being able to smoke. Complete downer all round. You with me so far?’
‘Yes,’ I said, though I wasn't sure I was.
‘Okay. So the idea is this. A Date Cancelling Service. The day before the evening's supposed to happen, the guests ring up and cancel. They call it off, politely, just before anyone has to actually do anything. Everyone gets a nice warm glow about agreeing to see each other, but no one has to tidy up afterwards or schlep baby photos halfway across town. Everyone can just sit in their own apartments and have a perfectly good evening by themselves, and they'll enjoy it all the more because they thought they were going to have to go out.’
‘Where do you come in?’
‘I come up with an excuse for cancelling – won't even have to be a good one, because no one wants to go through with it anyway. You can say, “My head has exploded and Janet has turned into an egg” and it'll be, “Oh, sorry to hear that, some other time then, yeah great, goodbye”.’
‘Where does the money come in?’
‘I take the cut of what it would have cost to buy the food and drink and cabs. In the early days it's nickel and dime, I admit, but wait till it gets into the upper floors. I'll make a pile. What do you think?’
‘I think it's a crock of shit,’ I said, laughing. ‘Even worse than the mugging service.’
‘You could be right,’ he admitted, grinning. ‘But you didn't come here for this – you can wait for the autobiography. What can I do for you, boss man?’
‘Has the word gone round?’ I asked, knowing the answer.
‘The word has gone round and around and met itself coming back. “Jack's in town. Everyone beware.” ’
‘Not any more,’ I said. Howie looked at me soberly.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘And I have to admit, that's not what people are saying. You were spotted out in the Portal, that's all.’ Howie lit a cigarette and looked at me closely. ‘How are you doing, Jack?’
I knew what he was asking. I wasn't ready to go into it yet, not even with him. Possibly not ever, with anyone.
‘I'm okay,’ I said. ‘But I'm in very deep shit.’
‘That I will believe. What can I do for you?’
I reached into my pocket and brought the chip out. It was a small oblong of clear perspex, about four centimetres by two, and five millimetres deep. Along one of the short edges was a row of tiny gold contacts designed to interface the unit to the motherboard of a computer. The number ‘128’ was printed matter-of-factly on the front. I'd found it in my bag after we'd left the Farm. I hadn't put it there, which meant Ratchet must have done. Howie took it from me, peered closely at it, and sniffed.
‘What's this?’
‘I think it's one-twenty-eight gigs of RAM,’ I said.
‘Don't recognize the make. Where's it from?’
‘A friend gave it to me.’
‘You're in luck,’