This story is not recommended for children.

I walk.

It’s either very early morning or very late evening. If I were a boyscout I might have been able to tell you which. I think I heard that you can tell the time of day by looking at moss on trees, or something like that. There are trees every once in a while, but they’re occasional freaks looking out of place. An awkward reminder of how things used to be, like a ballerina at a rave. But most of this place is concrete. Did somebody plan all this? Did fat execs sit around a table and slap each other’s backs when they saw the blueprints? Lovely underpasses. Elegantly dark alleys. Chain link fencing seems to be in vogue as well.

I’ve no idea where I’m going. All I know is that I want to put as much blue sky between myself and Fasbuck’s corpse as humanly possible. I’m a murderess on the run. Lock up your loved ones, sleepy town. There’s a mad woman on the loose.

I can hear sirens wailing around the rooftops, invisible banshees chorusing disaster for somebody. It couldn’t be me. It can’t be me. Fasbuck can’t have called for help. Can he?

Death black helicopter beats the sky to submission, slashing a light beam over the beige streets like a gaffer in search of the star turn. Far off, a dog barking.

No way. Really? They have dogs here? Great. I’m loose in he city with nowhere to go, no money, no Tab, nothing. And there are actual dogs. Not cute and fluffy dog-shaped toys, but living, breathing, barking dog-shaped wild animals that hunt in packs and steal babies, or something like that.

Where am I supposed to be going? Part of me wants to be discovered as quickly as possible. Maybe find a hospital, a police station, or a friendly club that’s hired me some time before. I’m running scenes in my head where I’m falling into the arms of caring women in white uniforms. They’re stroking my hair and telling me not to worry. But then again I keep forgetting I’m a killer now. Last thing I need is authority figures taking over the mix. Now I’m running a scene of a tiny room with a cast iron door, and of yours truly banging on it all night while silent wild dogs gently sneak slumbering babies from their beds.

What would they want with babies anyway? I mean, why would a dog want to take a baby? Are they planning to bring them up as hound-men? Is there some long overlooked feral tribe that piss up lampposts and chase cars?

I stop walking and look out over the horizon of aerials and spires. Of flat roofs and towers. Flat broke and dealers. Ray’s out there. Somewhere. He doesn’t know what’s happened to me. He doesn’t know what I’ve been through.

He doesn’t know how much I love him.

But he’s out there, somewhere. Whipping up the ticket, mixing the frenzy.

I turn. Real slow. Degree by slow degree.

At some point, at some moment during that statue-slow turn, I’m facing him. Looking right at him, separated only by distance. I screw up my eyes and focus the telepathic message, casting it out to find him. “I love you!”

Dogs bark on, sending out messages of their own. It’s not much but it’s the only reply I get.

* * *

My parents had brought clothes round for me but they hadn’t stayed. I accepted the package from the orderly as he brought it to my bed and signed the appropriate spot on the Tab when he pushed it under my nose.

He looked at me, frowning, then he looked at the sheets. It seemed to puzzle him. I’d got used to it by then, of course. Most people tended to assume that the blue would come out after a few washes. Even my parent’s initial reaction had been relatively mild until they realised that the colour was there to stay. I remember my mother made sure I never went near anything white for weeks, until she gradually got it into her head that I wasn’t going to leave cerulean prints all over her laundry.

The process of colouring was painful. Far more so than any Topper’s beating despite the broken bones and internal bleeding they’d given me. Being coloured wasn’t quite the same as tattooing, but it worked on a very similar principle, with the pigment being blasted into the skin using an extremely high-pressure jet. It was bitching cold and caused an instant dermatological reaction that burned for days. Max coloured me up during the summer holidays to make sure I could spend most of the time off my face on painkillers without attracting too much negative attention.

So when the orderly was confused that I hadn’t stained the white hospital sheets it was no big surprise to me. At least not as big a surprise as it was when Maggie walked in after him.

”You’re looking better,” she said, “at least as far as I can tell.”

She’d brought flowers, which she held awkwardly as if she hadn’t really wanted to get caught with them. The orderly checked my signature and authorised it with a very quick thumb scan. His Tab gave a little bleep and he left without another word, as Maggie rested the flowers awkwardly on the bedside locker.

”I thought they might, you know, brighten the place up.”

I looked at them and smiled. They had tiny yellow blooms that hung in little clusters. “Thanks. They’re erm… lovely. What are they?”

“Flowers.”

I wasn’t sure whether she was joking or not, until her face broke into a grin. “They’re modified, I think. Their mother was a test tube and their father was a scalpel.”

”Nice. And that smell. Colpré number seventeen?”

”Yeah. That’s me, sorry. I overdid it a bit. How’s the hand?”

I held up the white bandages for her to see.

”Shit. They’re out of blue? That’s so unfair. Does it itch, yet?”

She was dressed immaculately. So much so that I felt scruffy even though I was only in a hospital gown. There were tiny sliver cherry logos on her lapels which glowed red occasionally. Fruit Suits were always made to measure, incorporating complex climate control systems, which were tailored to the wearer’s metabolic rate. Their highly sought after range of Smart Suits had spawned a flurry of activity in the counterfeit market, of course, so there was every chance that her suit was only pretending to be monitoring her. But somehow, looking at Maggie as she stood there before me, I’d never have believed it possible.

Maggie’s eyes had been the first thing I’d noticed. Even when I was coughing up blood on the pavement, the brilliance of her bottle-green irises had struck me and fixed themselves in my mind. Now I was free of the pain, and looking her over again I noticed the rest of her face properly. Pale skin with a hint of freckles, slender neck, perfect teeth and full, kissable lips. She was easily five years older than I was. Don’t forget I was only a boy of sixteen at the time, and here was a wealthy young woman who seemed about as far out of my league as it was possible to get.

”Hello?” She asked. “It’s a little late to lapse into a coma, I think.”

I snapped out of my reverie and smiled awkwardly. “Sorry. I was just… Anyway. It doesn’t itch too badly. Not yet, anyway.”

”Have the police interviewed you, yet?”

”Yeah. The Bill brought me the bill earlier. I’ve asked them to drop the case.”

Her nose wrinkled. “You’re joking? I saw what they did to you!”

I shrugged. I’d had a pretty good view of it, too. “I know. But they won’t find the gang. And even if they do, they’ll never prove it. I just don’t have enough money to pursue the investigation. If it had happened two months ago I might have been all over them.”

”Why two months ago?”

I felt my cheeks flush. Despite the urge to grit my teeth, I admitted the truth. “I only turned sixteen eight weeks ago. Before that the police work would have been free.”

She put her hand in front of her mouth to hide the grin. “I didn’t realise!” Her eyes were sparkling. “You’re a big lad for your age.”

I think at that moment we both remembered I’d been naked when we last met. We looked away from each other in awkward silence.

“Anyway.” I said, after an uncomfortable half minute. “I’m glad you called by because I wanted to thank you. And I need to pay you back for calling the ambulance.”

She waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, don’t worry about it. I’ve got a Samaritan clause on my healthcare.”

“No,.really. Let me save you the hassle of claiming. How much was it?”

She thought for a long moment, staring hard. Then she shrugged and sighed, as if making up her mind. “Take me for a drink when they let you out and we’ll call it quits.”

Was she blushing?

I pointed to the package. “Well I’ve just got my gear. Or at least the gear my parents approve of. I got signed off an hour ago so I’m free to leave. I was just waiting for clothes.”

“Great.” She said. “I’ll be waiting outside by the fountain. Bring the flowers so you’ve got something to give me.”

“Why don’t you just take them with you now?”

She looked at me and shook her head. “And they say romance is dead. Can’t a lady expect flowers on her first date any more?”

I opened my mouth but nothing came out. I think she was still laughing when the doors swung closed behind her.

And that was pretty much how we started. I often asked myself how different life might have been if I hadn’t taken that beating. Perhaps we were both destined for fame and fortune anyway, but if Maggie hadn’t stopped for me on that day, if I’d turned round as soon as I’d spotted the toppers, how different might our lives have turned out? Somehow, through the chaos and the white noise, we managed to find each other. I’m not a great believer in destiny, but can you really imagine a world without Troy and Magdalene?

So I set out from the hospital, not knowing I was walking into the greatest adventure of my life. Well, perhaps that’s not true. Can you imagine the thoughts of a sixteen-year-old boy, on his way to a first date with an elegant twenty-one year old? Can you really think of an adventure that could have been greater? I brandished the yellow flowers like a legionnaire’s standard, striding out of the hospital like I owned the place, where just seventy-two hours earlier I’d been admitted via the back door, sobbing like a baby on an ambulance trolley.

* * *

I walk.

There’s a very fine line between not knowing which way to go and being totally lost. Just like there’s a narrow margin between just being lost and being utterly placeless. I’ve walked. I’ve pondered. I’ve soaked up the taste of freedom. Now I’m having to admit that I haven’t got the first clue what I’m supposed to be doing with myself.

I can’t seem to move through the town like everyone else. I’m at odds with everything, constantly getting my nose pushed out and hitting dead ends. At some point I’ve become a dancefloor geek, standing out from the crowd for all the wrong reasons. I move out of time with everyone else while people point and make jokes behind their hands. The city’s turned its back on me. My grace period’s expired and suddenly the atmosphere’s nose-dived. I’d been so grateful to be out of Fasbuck’s cellar I hardly even noticed, but now the beat’s changed on me and I’m dancing out of tempo, trying to find new moves with lead lined shoes. The town’s taken on a life of its own. It’s got teeth, and all of them are sharp.

I take a rest mid morning after spending a whole night thinking only about putting space between where I was and where I am. I’ve no money and my feet are aching, but from not far away I can smell doughnuts. The enticing scent is woven between the stale metallic mix of fumes and tarmac heat like a subtle melody. There’s a café on the corner, where workers in luminous vests come to rest their white hats on sticky benches and talk about sport. There’s a storm in my stomach and I suddenly realise I’ve how hungry I am. How long is it since I last ate properly?

I cross the street, letting my nose lead me like a cartoon critter, and before I know it I’m in the shop, where a group of dusty men and women stand around a collection of grubby tables covered in tomato sauce and grease.

“Yes, Sweetheart?” A middle-aged woman with black roots and baggy eyes looks up at me from her Tab-loid, which is showing Lucy Luvnit in her latest double belt.

Some of the workers drop their conversation a little, and I find myself wishing I’d waited for them all to move on before coming in. I want to take the woman away and whisper to her, to save myself the embarrassment of having to beg for food in front this rough audience.

She raises an eyebrow as I hesitate. I can’t exactly order anything. And could I really ask for charity? With people watching? The very thought makes me choke. I settle for the path of least resistance. “Sorry. Do you have a phone I could use?”

She frowns. “What? A payphone, you mean?”

I shift uncomfortably. “Erm.. I’m not sure. I need to call somebody but I haven’t got a phone.”

Just as I feared, the builders and cable layers are quietening. “Have you no Tab, either?” She asks, looking a little puzzled. “I’m not sure I know of any cash phones round here. Turning to shout over her shoulder, she hollers into the back room, from which bacon scented steam is billowing. “Brew? D’yer know where there’s a payphone round ‘ere?”

“A what?” The disembodied reply seems to be dampened by the steam. I want to tell them that it’s not what I want. I don’t have any cash. But somehow I can’t bring myself to admit it. Better to let them point me in the direction of a phone I can’t use than admit I can’t afford the price of a call.

“You know. One of them phones you put money in to make a call. Used to be on street corners.”

Whoever Brew might be, he obviously has no intention of revealing himself. After a long pause, he shouts back, “Do you know, I’d never even noticed they’ve gone. How long is it since they went?”

The woman shakes her head sympathetically. “Sorry, love”. And then she turns her attention to the diners. “Any of you know where there’s a payphone?”

The workers exchange glances, until one of them, a woman in her forties steps forward, a steaming mug of tea in her hand. “Are you just wanting to make a call, love? You can use my Tab.”

She reaches into her belt pocket with her free hand and holds out the small black rectangle for me to take. I’m so relieved I could cry.

“Thanks ever so much.” I tell her. “I’ll only be a minute.”

She shrugs and hands it over to me. I run my thumb over the telephone icon and dial the number for Ray as the screen becomes a number pad. A small swallow logo appears as I choose “voice” from the list of available call types.

I hold my breath and wait for him to answer.

* * *

Reuben steps from the elevator doors and is greeted by Clara Jane, smartly dressed in a beige business suit with a particularly fashionable visor and earbraid combo.

“Hello, again, Reuben, and welcome to my humble abode. How was your journey?”

“It was just class, thanks. Apart from the three hour delay.”

“I heard. The news report said almost a hundred casualties. How terrible.”

Reuben shrugs off his coat. “That’s the trouble with noded transport. It’s all well and good bringing these ideas in but if we’re not actually allowed to drive down the expressway when the system falls apart, then what’s the use?”

“I agree.” Clara nods. “Can Clara take your coat?”

By now, Reuben is becoming used to his hostess speaking in the third person, but the odd syntax still gives him pause. “Of course she can.” He says with a grin. “Thanks, Clara.”

Clara smiles sweetly and takes it from him.

“Although the joys of public transport’s not exactly something you’ve had much experience of, is it?” Reuben asks, stepping into the luxuriously appointed reception room with his attention already being drawn to the panoramic window.

“You’re right, of course. Only now that I’m relying on Clara Jane more often I’m sure I’ll start to become more and more bound by earthly constraints.”

Reuben drops himself into a plush red chair without waiting to be invited. Clara’s voice, for a moment, seems more formal and he realises it’s Clara asking the question for herself rather than simply repeating the voice of her mistress. “Would you like a drink, Mister Porter?”

“Scotch and Soda would go down nicely, thanks. You know I still can’t quite get over this idea of speaking to you via Clara. Not that I’m complaining about the lovely lady, of course. She’s almost as much a joy to behold as you yourself, but it’s such a frightfully complicated way to do business, don’t you think? I mean, in comparison with other means of communication.”

Clara pours out a careful measure of whisky from a decanter and tries to remember the right amount of soda to add. “It’s just far more liberating for me to be able to hold face to face talks when I’m literally face to face. No matter how advanced the technology may be, as an intelligent construct I’m still restricted to appearing on a screen, which is still a barrier of sorts. So, as a designated citizen, with rights, with earnings, I’m able to choose how I spend my own money. That’s why I’ve chosen to invest in a communication method that allows me to mix more readily with regular people.”

Reuben nods and accepts the glass from Clara. “Yes, but it’s not altogether easy to remember that I’m talking to you, Cheryl, when I’m face to face with your lovely assistant. Perhaps she should wear a hat, or something.”

Clara raises an eyebrow. “That’s just a lack of vision on your part.” She giggles, coyly. “I’m meeting you as a representative of Cougar Sportswear. I’m happy to discuss business deals with you, while at the same time bearing in mind that I’m speaking to a representative of a very large and successful corporation. Why should it be any different for those I deal with? Clara speaks for me, just as you speak for Cougar.”

“Ah, but there is a difference.” Reuben raises a finger. “I might speak on behalf of cougar, but I’m not actually Cougar. You’re speaking to Reuben Porter. I’m speaking to a completely different person who is, effectively, impersonating you.”

“True, but she does it so well, don’t you think?” Clara takes a seat close by, tucking her legs under herself as she sits down with a glass of water. “Think of the matter as an ability issue. If I had no legs, you wouldn’t object to me using a prosthetic. If I had no larynx, you would find it acceptable to allow me to use a vocal synthesiser. I’ve been created without form, so why then should I not be able to hire Clara Jane to fulfil that need?”

Reuben raises his hands in a gesture of comical surrender. “Far be it for me to argue with a superior intellect, or such a charming hostess. I shall cease my short-sighted nit picking forthwith and restrict my conversation only to that which I understand.”

“Wonderful.” Clara grins. “In that case we’d better talk business.”

Three hours and twenty-seven minutes later, Clara watches him depart via the office security monitor.

“How did I do?” She asks.

“[Oh, you were just golden, sweetie. I’m so pleased with you.]” Cheryl’s voice tells her.

“Well, he seemed impressed enough. And now Pop Sickle have a very juicy sponsorship deal to play with.”

“[The label will love us all the more for it. Except maybe the graphics team. They’ll have to put in some serious overtime modelling my virtual sneaks in time for next month’s big launch!]”

“And Reuben looked quite pleased with himself, too. I imagine he’ll be on his way to more than his fair share of backslapping.”

“[He had quite a spring in his step, didn’t he? He’s completely taken with you of course, so it’s hardly surprising.]”

“Me?” Clara feels her cheeks prickling.

“[You bet! Didn’t you see the way he was looking at you? He would have signed for double if I’d gotten you to wear that blouse a button or two lower.]”

Clara is laughing “No way! He’s way too…. I don’t know, but I’m not his type. I mean, he’s aristocracy.”

“[Call him what you like]” Says the voice in her head. “[But he’s still got the hots for you.]”

Clara says nothing, choosing instead to watch the yellowing horizon over the city.

“[In fact, Clara?]” Cheryl’s voice asks, shortly. “[I think it might be fun if you asked him out, don’t you?]”

* * *