friends,” Fisk continued, “isn’t it a time you called it a day with Langton? You needn’t pretend to like him.”
“I’m not pretending.”
She faced him, fingers steepled. “If you write a nice letter thanking him for everything he’s done, but saying you don’t want to see him any more -”
“No.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I won’t write it because it’s not true. I want to see him and you can’t stop me.”
“I’m your handler.”
“So you keep saying. I don’t remember anyone asking if I wanted you.”
She started to cry, right in front of him. “After everything I’ve done! Just go.”
He wanted to say “With pleasure”, but decency prevented him. He tried not to look at her before stepping into the corridor.
“That was a turn up for the books,” a voice said at his elbow. “Does Langton mean that much to you?”
“When I’m with him, I feel real. I’m not a machine because he doesn’t see me as one.”
He’d never thought of Malik as having an expressive face. There was the look she wore in their sessions, professional deadpan, and her every day one, a supercilious smirk. This wasn’t ambiguous at all: shocked nausea.
“We’re due a session,” she said faintly. “When are you free?”
“Two days’ time.”
“Don’t forget. And don’t do anything stupid.”
She scuttled away. Peculiar woman. Yet she was supposed to analyse him .
The Century Games
As autumn turned into winter, Lila saw its worst storms in a decade. Spires poked from murky flood water, lowing cows were airlifted, grim faced villagers ranted to anyone who would listen. “When will the Prime Minister help us?” became the national catchphrase. Her approval rating dipped below 50% for the first time.
The dome that shielded Lux in times of crisis went up. Josh watched the rain sluice down, the traffic churn below. He had a devouring homesickness for Langton. He longed for rippling fields, murmuring firs, Chimera. Alfred.
“No way,” Sugar said. “Houses can be replaced. You can’t.”
Any other time he could have gritted his teeth and borne it. But everybody else was preparing for the Games. “Later, Josh,” or “Don’t bug me,” they snapped. So he returned to his suite and stared at the skyline, his books and paintings meaningless.
Alfred rang once a day. Their chats lasted at least an hour, usually longer, and kept him up to date: rescues from flooded shelters, the wet dog that skittered around Chimera.
“When are you coming up?” Josh tried not to sound too plaintive.
“Depends when I can get away.”
“I miss you.”
“Miss you too.” They’d spin out their goodbyes as long as they could, recalling a funny story or obscure fact they’d heard.
The fourth time, Josh heard something odd. Alfred had replaced his receiver, but somebody tutted before hanging up. Malik? But why would she listen to his calls?
Whatever Alfred felt, he felt violently. Typical boffins, to forget Josh when a project was underway. As soon as he could be spared, he would go to Lux and see what was what. A pretext came the next day. He’d just crossed the threshold when the tube in the library started to shriek. He picked it up.
“Lord Langton?” (He grunted “Good evening,” but went unheard). “I didn’t know who else to turn to -”
“Who is this?”
“Smedley. Neville Smedley. The Mayor’s secretary.”
A picture of sorts emerged. With inimitable timing Jerry Etruscus had chosen the month before the Games to cash in his cheques to sanity.
“He keeps asking for you,” Smedley said. “Won’t say anything else.”
Alfred and Gwyn set off for Lux, arriving after midnight. Following a conference with Smedley - the secretary had bolted himself in, there were crashes and yells in the background - he turned up at eight sharp the next morning.
Jerry operated out of a funny afterthought of a place, wedged
“I’m not pretending.”
She faced him, fingers steepled. “If you write a nice letter thanking him for everything he’s done, but saying you don’t want to see him any more -”
“No.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I won’t write it because it’s not true. I want to see him and you can’t stop me.”
“I’m your handler.”
“So you keep saying. I don’t remember anyone asking if I wanted you.”
She started to cry, right in front of him. “After everything I’ve done! Just go.”
He wanted to say “With pleasure”, but decency prevented him. He tried not to look at her before stepping into the corridor.
“That was a turn up for the books,” a voice said at his elbow. “Does Langton mean that much to you?”
“When I’m with him, I feel real. I’m not a machine because he doesn’t see me as one.”
He’d never thought of Malik as having an expressive face. There was the look she wore in their sessions, professional deadpan, and her every day one, a supercilious smirk. This wasn’t ambiguous at all: shocked nausea.
“We’re due a session,” she said faintly. “When are you free?”
“Two days’ time.”
“Don’t forget. And don’t do anything stupid.”
She scuttled away. Peculiar woman. Yet she was supposed to analyse him .
The Century Games
As autumn turned into winter, Lila saw its worst storms in a decade. Spires poked from murky flood water, lowing cows were airlifted, grim faced villagers ranted to anyone who would listen. “When will the Prime Minister help us?” became the national catchphrase. Her approval rating dipped below 50% for the first time.
The dome that shielded Lux in times of crisis went up. Josh watched the rain sluice down, the traffic churn below. He had a devouring homesickness for Langton. He longed for rippling fields, murmuring firs, Chimera. Alfred.
“No way,” Sugar said. “Houses can be replaced. You can’t.”
Any other time he could have gritted his teeth and borne it. But everybody else was preparing for the Games. “Later, Josh,” or “Don’t bug me,” they snapped. So he returned to his suite and stared at the skyline, his books and paintings meaningless.
Alfred rang once a day. Their chats lasted at least an hour, usually longer, and kept him up to date: rescues from flooded shelters, the wet dog that skittered around Chimera.
“When are you coming up?” Josh tried not to sound too plaintive.
“Depends when I can get away.”
“I miss you.”
“Miss you too.” They’d spin out their goodbyes as long as they could, recalling a funny story or obscure fact they’d heard.
The fourth time, Josh heard something odd. Alfred had replaced his receiver, but somebody tutted before hanging up. Malik? But why would she listen to his calls?
Whatever Alfred felt, he felt violently. Typical boffins, to forget Josh when a project was underway. As soon as he could be spared, he would go to Lux and see what was what. A pretext came the next day. He’d just crossed the threshold when the tube in the library started to shriek. He picked it up.
“Lord Langton?” (He grunted “Good evening,” but went unheard). “I didn’t know who else to turn to -”
“Who is this?”
“Smedley. Neville Smedley. The Mayor’s secretary.”
A picture of sorts emerged. With inimitable timing Jerry Etruscus had chosen the month before the Games to cash in his cheques to sanity.
“He keeps asking for you,” Smedley said. “Won’t say anything else.”
Alfred and Gwyn set off for Lux, arriving after midnight. Following a conference with Smedley - the secretary had bolted himself in, there were crashes and yells in the background - he turned up at eight sharp the next morning.
Jerry operated out of a funny afterthought of a place, wedged
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