Nymphomation, Page 23

  Joe shook his head and made for the stairs.

  There was an emptiness left behind; Benny and Max knew that Joe was important, Jimmy had his guesses, even Little Celia was worried.

  ‘He’ll be back,’ said Hackle.

  ‘You said that about Dopejack,’ said Benny.

  ‘It’s up to you, Benny. He—’

  ‘Why me? You’re the one that’s fucking him.’

  ‘That’s…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It never went that far.’

  ‘I wonder why? Couldn’t get it up?’

  ‘Ask Joe. Please, don’t let him go…’

  ‘I get all the dirty jobs.’

  Benny left them to it, their mad experiments with broken-down mazes and little girls. He found Joe in the bedroom, packing his things.

  ‘You’re not really going?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Look, I know about you and Max, OK?’

  ‘Yeah, and I know you know. Like where were you last night.’

  ‘Getting some air.’

  ‘Getting that stupid love bite more like. Bloody kids!’

  ‘Cheek. You’re fucking Max, then telling me off for going out.’

  ‘I’m not fucking Max.’

  ‘You’d like to.’

  ‘I don’t go for older guys.’

  ‘Nor do I.’

  ‘Cheap shot.’

  ‘I love you, Joe.’

  ‘Don’t say that.’

  Joe dropped a folded shirt into his suitcase. He came up close to Benny.

  ‘There’s nothing between me and Max. Friends. He’s my tutor!’

  ‘Kinky.’

  ‘It’s this house, don’t you see? Messing with the bones. The nymphomation. It’s making us all randy. And…well, we were having problems weren’t we? Max was…Max is Max. I mean, he’s Max Hackle! The best fucking mathematician I’ve ever known. That means something to me, something pure. But now…it excites me. It turns me on. And I don’t like it.’

  ‘Wild Joe Crocus, loverman supreme!’

  ‘Benny, you know what I’m really like. That’s why I love you. You know I want control. I haven’t got long left, and I can’t afford to waste it. I want to be in control. That’s why I told Max to stuff his cock up somebody else’s hole.’

  ‘You didn’t say that?’

  ‘Exactly that.’

  ‘Loving it!’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You wanna go to bed?’ asked Sweet Benny Fenton.

  ‘Sure do,’ answered Joe Crocus.

  At seven o’clock, Daisy went downstairs to the Golden Samosa. The evening rush had barely begun. Looking through the window, she could see no sign of Jazir, so she went inside. Immediately, a waiter asked her if she wanted a table or a takeaway? Neither, she wanted to see Jazir.

  ‘Jazir not here.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  The waiter shook his head, slowly, then moved back to the kitchen, carrying a stack of dirty plates. Daisy followed him through the swing doors. Jazir’s father was working up a new spice mixture, carefully adding chilli powder to turmeric and coriander. The smell of the kitchen was so like Jazir’s beautiful flesh, the colour of the smoky air. The father’s anger was like the smell of the flesh of the night of the air of the flames in the karahi pan.

  ‘You get out of my kitchen, this instance!’

  ‘I’m looking for—’

  ‘Jazir not here. Very angry I am. Out, out, out!’

  Daisy went back upstairs and tried the telephone. Jazir’s mother answered it. She was less angry than the father, but only slightly so. ‘Jazir’s not coming out any more. Jazir is banned.’

  Daisy lay on her bed, wondering what to do. She wanted to tell Jazir she wasn’t going with him tonight, that’s all. Now it looked like Jazir wasn’t going either. It was her fault, wasn’t it…

  She reached over to find a handkerchief. The tube of vaz was still there, bedside, from the night before, plus a small pile of punies.

  Daisy was angry at first, because she thought Jaz had paid her for the sex. But then another thought came to her, even more scary.

  Later, a cold, dark house in Whalley Range. There was a cop-ribbon across the gate, but that was easy. The door, when closely examined by the light of a torch, was seen to have been recently mended. A new lock. No problem. Daisy squeezed a small amount of vaz into the keyhole. The tumblers became slick, the door opened easily with a slight push.

  Elsewhere…

  Softer, darker, quieter, more ghostly…Benny lay peaceful beside the sleeping Joe. He’d proven something to himself. That he was in control. He’d turned the bad bone into a good fuck. At the height of it, how badly he’d wanted to plunge his teeth into Joe’s neck, passing the nymphomation on to the next stage. How badly he’d then wanted Joe to kill him, kill him viciously. Once passed on, the carrier had to die, that was the ruling.

  The belt around the neck, tightening into orgasm…

  Instead, he’d let Joe come, and then he’d come, and for a second it felt like love, real love, and then it felt like betrayal.

  Benny got up, carefully, so as not to disturb. Slipped on a shirt, one of Joe’s, not yet packed. Went to the window. It was dark outside, and a solitary blurb lay hovering in the air. Horny George! Faithful companion, eager to progress the Joker’s work. The blurb was a cursor to the program Benny carried inside, pointing out the next task. He waved it away.

  Not yet.

  He looked at his watch. Ten o’clock.

  He got dressed quietly, sorted a few things out, and went downstairs. On the way, he visited the kitchen and took out a breadknife. The house was silent, no doubt experiments were still going on in the cellar. Benny laughed as he went outside. If only they knew about the creature they had under their own roof. What knowledge. Mr Million you want? Just ask me. Secrets of the bones you want. I’m the man. I’m the bearer, and one of you will get to kill me.

  But not yet.

  Talk about playing the Joker. Joe was only pretending to sleep. As soon as Benny had left, he got up, dressed and finished packing. His treasured copy of Mathematica Magica was waiting for him, given to him by Max, but too heavy, too restrictive. He would leave it for Benny. Through the window he watched Benny walk away. Joe carried his suitcase out of the bedroom door, kissing goodbye to the sweet comfort of years. Down the corridor, another door. He pushed it open slowly, carefully…whispering…

  ‘Celia?’

  ‘Huhhhh.’

  ‘It’s me. Joe. You awake?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘It’s Joe. You ready to leave?’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  Benny was walking down Barlow Moor Road towards the House of Chances, barely aware of the blurbfly following him. Just knowing it was there.

  Who to choose, that was the question. It’s an interesting question; if you had to choose somebody to kill you, who would you choose? A friend, a lover, a relative, a stranger? Somebody famous, religious, intelligent? Unknown, poor, stupid? A professional hitman; the quick, silent bullet in the night?

  Benny’s choices: Hackle, Joe, Jimmy, Celia, Daisy, Jazir. The collected Dark Fractals, all spread out and waiting for his deliberation.

  Joe was the obvious one. Lover. Not long of this world anyway. But hadn’t he messed up that chance already? Letting him live.

  Hackle? The wisest. The boss. The enemy. Main target. Most wanted. Take him down with me, maybe save the rest? Maybe…

  What about Celia? Little Miss Celia. Could she do it? Benny couldn’t imagine it, but then again, hadn’t he…

  Once the nympho took over…

  And what difference did it make, the order? They’d all fall down, one by one, in sequence. The Joker inside would see to it. What was the point of it. He didn’t know, only that it had to be done. Only then could he go home to the mother and father of all the lost chances of the world. It was his job, you see. Infect, then die. A genetic program. He had fought the Joker in bed with Joe. Won
that one, but he’d made the Joker angry. Benny could feel the thing inside him, the urge, like a snake uncurling. The double helix, uncurling.

  He didn’t have long left. Infect, then die. Infect, infect, infect! Infect the world with nymphomation, pass it on. Give birth to it. Not long…not long left. Must fight it, do the right thing. Keep walking…

  The Joker could hear his every tangled thought, and was laughing.

  Talk about not having long left. Joe was suddenly aware of the curse inside him, the cancerous gene, growing, growing. Don’t think about it. Just bundle Celia into the car. Leave. Find somewhere, somewhere safe. Wait for Celia’s lucky bone to come calling. Make a little life of what was left; his only craving now.

  Benny had reached the outskirts of the AnnoDomino grounds. There was some kind of protest going on, with a bunch of people waving banners and shouting slogans at the House of Chances. ‘Free the Zero! No more blanks! Bones are bad! Whitewash! Zuze, Zuze, Zuze!’ Benny recognized them: the League of Zero, Nigel Zuze’s crew-sluts. From what he could gather, they knew that Zuze had won the double-blank.

  A cloud of securiblurbs was keeping the protesters at bay, while the harassed official, called Chief Executive Crawl, moved along the line, trying to reason with them.

  There was no reasoning.

  The crowd pushed forward, breaking the blurb-line. Benny was vaguely aware of cop sirens approaching. A camera crew moving in. The official raising his hands, making a gesture. The blurbs going in for the attack. Screams and curses. One boy went down, holding his leg in disbelief as a blurb stung its message into him. Benny’s own blurb, Horny George, was confused by all this, which side to be on?

  Talk about taking a chance. Benny pushed through the crowd, moving slowly forward until only one nasty securiblurb was looking directly into his face, sting extended.

  It recognized him. Or rather, what he carried, and left him alone.

  But Benny would not be left alone; to the blurb he raised his fist and shouted: ‘I’m not doing it! Do you hear me, Mr Million? The game’s over.’

  Have you ever heard a thousand blurbflies laugh? (As Jazir, in his Rusholme bed, raised up suddenly and flung back the sheets.) Have you ever heard a thousand blurbflies scream? (As Jazir saw, through a thousand eyes, all that was about to take place, and placed his hands over his eyes as though not to see.) The blurbs were moving in even as Benny made his decision, there was only one way, taking a long-bladed kitchen knife from under his coat, bringing it up quickly, and with no thought at all in his mind, only pure emptiness and the total need to be killed, turning the Joker upon itself, hearing it scream inside and then plunging the blade (as Jazir screamed at a million miles per hour) straight, straight into his black, tender-hearted, waiting chest…

  What was she looking for, or even expecting? If only Jaz had come along. (Stop thinking like that.) Some sign of a cover-up, perhaps? The downstairs rooms had been clean but untidy, or else tidy and dirty, in the correct student style. Nothing out of place, nothing in its place. With torchlight only, Daisy had searched everywhere for evidence of a disturbance (as Crawl had called it). The kitchen, the living room, back room. All clear, all disturbed, slightly. Now she was upstairs, looking in the bathroom (clean, dirty), first bedroom (clean, but unlived in), main bedroom…

  Immediately, she knew something was wrong.

  Couldn’t quite finger it, but whatever had happened, if it had happened, it had happened here. Just stepping in there told her so. The smell of disinfectant. Movement in the corner. The dancing man…

  This wasn’t the place for torches (too cold, too scary), so she chanced a table lamp, with the curtains well drawn. Let’s see…

  Was this the bedroom of a DJ with green hair and a headful of music? Sure, there was a mega-mixing system against one wall, vinyl neatly stacked, alphabetical by artist, DJ-style, that was fine. What else? Frank Scenario poster: ‘Cool down, baby, don’t you blow your top.’ A bed, unmade. A chair, a desk with a computer and various pieces of equipment. Frank Scenario screen saver, hat and shades, the dance of the cool at the end of the world, animated style. The movement she had seen from the doorway. What’s wrong with this room? What’s wrong with it?

  There’s nothing here, nothing missing. Just this air of something having happened…

  It took a while, a few seconds…then she got it. Frank. Something was wrong with Frank Scenario. Daisy went over to the computer, watched the screen saver go through a full motion. She knew the dance well enough, having seen Jazir copy it. So how come Frank himself was getting it so wrong? One two, one two three, slide. The system was corrupted…

  Hadn’t Dopejack claimed he knew who Mr Million was?

  Daisy hit the space bar to activate the computer. The desktop came up OK, no windows open. She pressed on the hard-disk icon. Nothing. The cursor was frozen, dreaded stopped-clock symbol. ‘Please assume the crash position.’ Someone had been at this, made a mess of it. Couldn’t see Dopejack doing that; for all his faults, the DJ was an expert surfer. And how come Frank was still alive on the saver, albeit slightly drunk? Shouldn’t he have gone down with the hard ship? And where were all the floppies kept? Just a new box of them, factory-sealed.

  Daisy tried a soft reset, got nowhere, so took the manic step of turning the computer off at the mains. The screen popped to black. Daisy knew you were supposed to wait a minute before turning it back on, but time was not her favourite friend. Click! Got a smiling Whoomphy, and a welcome to Burgernet message, and then the desktop again. But the hard drive still refused to open. It really was having problems. Maybe…

  A little touch of vaz in the night often brings delights. Following invisible instructions, Daisy fed some grease onto a new disk, which was then slotted home. The double-six icon came on screen, so no problems there. Over rider bone. A double click let the blurbs out, but what would they eat this time? Nothing to eat. Daisy tried the hard disk again; still sealed. Parched, the blurbs were flying in crazy shapes. An offshoot group was even trying to nibble away at the little burger symbol on the top-left corner of the menu bar. Owner’s medallion. Daisy pressed on this with the still locked-out cursor…

  Working!

  The usual menu: About Burgercom, Calculator, Chooser, Control Panels, Fax Centre, Key Caps, Notepad, Puzzle, Scrapbook.

  Obviously…Notepad or Scrapbook.

  Nothing in either. Anyway, it was the Puzzle the blurbs were interested in now. Strange choice of food…

  Daisy pressed.

  It was a four-by-four array of tiles, with one square missing. The fifteen remaining tiles had to be dragged into the shape of a Big Whoomph. Shouldn’t be too difficult, but the blurbs beat her to it, their little bodies moving the tiles around at top speed. Puzzle done, ten seconds. Must be a world record. Then they started to eat. The puzzle burger actually vanished under their repeated attack. Dopejack must’ve concocted this, a fractal burger to hide his secret thoughts. Infinite flavours for the hungry and the wise. What now? Sixteen blank squares remained, and already the blurbs had started to merge and multiply.

  Daisy tried to press on each square in turn. Nothing doing. Maybe there’s a password involved, something even the blurbs couldn’t get past. But what was it? And where to type it in anyway? Especially with a downed cursor. OK, consider that it’s a sixteen-letter term, one for each square. Seems reasonable. First choice, so obvious: Frank Scenario. Daisy counted the letters in the name. Thirteen. Fourteen including the space between the names. No good. OK, what was his full name, Jazir had mentioned it, surely? Francis? Francis Scenario. That’s sixteen letters, isn’t it, including the space? Let’s try it…

  Daisy dragged the cursor’s clock to the top-left square. Pressed. Typed F. Moved the cursor. Typed R. Moved. Typed A. Moved. N. Moved. C. Moved…

  Nothing was happening. No letters appearing. The drive was still down. She just had to hope Dopejack had some ancillary device in store. Some last trick. (Why say last? Don’t know anything yet.) Moved. Typed. N.
A. R. I. O.

  Waited. (As the blurbs darkened more and more of the screen.)

  Pressed Enter.

  Waited. (As the shadows grew cold…)

  Waited. (As a car breathed slowly, down the night.)

  The puzzle square became a hole, through which these words escaped:

  not long left hakmust can;t jokerz00z jker

  noow me can’t control eat must

  be kill me pleas who nex mus bite wwho next

  mmnot long mmwaaant to no

  clos me dowwn wwhhhhhho biiite mmwwhooo

  mmisjag mmgerad ammmis

  ceeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

  The blurbs were floating over the broken text, slowly dying now, all food gone, eating themselves. The last one fell away.

  Daisy stared at the message, lost in ciphering, finding fragments, writing in pain. Last moments, a message to Hackle (not long left hakmust can;t). Can’t what? Nigel Zuze had won the Joker Bone (jokerz00z)? The double-zero carefully imbedded. Zero penetration? But then saying the Joker was now himself, Dopejack (jker noow me can’t control eat must be kill me pleas). The Joker Bone could be passed on? Now Dopejack wants somebody to kill him? Was it really painful, winning the double? All that Desmond Targett business, toilet-cleaning business, just a ruse? And then lots of stuff about biting and eating and who’s next. Like Dopejack had to pass it on somehow, the prize. And then descending into gibberish.

  Something there…

  No.

  A bell somewhere ringing, dragging Daisy away from the screen. The doorbell! The door swinging open, no doubt, with the slightest push, vaz-style. Shit! Should have locked it, Daisy, but how? Voices. Footsteps on the stairs…the return of the Joker Bone?

  Lights out and Daisy dives under the bed!

  The bedroom door opening…

  ‘I’m sleeping here?’ Celia’s voice. ‘This dump?’

  ‘Stop complaining, squirt.’ Joe’s voice. ‘I’m your Big Eddie now.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  Daisy, from the dust and girlie mags and the soiled handkerchiefs, somehow had to let them know she was here, without scaring Celia too much.