This story is not recommended for children.

It’s The Glyco Show. Daytime fodder for the unemployable. Bread and water for the idle mind. Shrink wrapped outrage and processed tragedy as voiced by “genuine” members of the public, an open forum of debate and confessional focusing on the issues that bring in the rubber-necked viewers. We have incest, unruly teenagers, ticket victims, domestic violence, cyber rape, urban decay. Good, old-fashioned dog-whistle issues where the lines of morality are so clearly drawn you can see them from space with the naked eye.

Advertising slots on this show still cost more than you’d think. Even the destitute need to be sold to, and what the marketers lose in viewer affluence they more than make up for in volume. Shows like Glyco draw in the debt brokers like flies to a corpse. Remember, if you can’t say no to credit; we won’t say no to you.

We’re on in five, four, three…

Raymond Glyco’s teeth are white and straight. His tailored clothes are crisp edged and expensive, his non-stick hair flawlessly dark and thick. Not bad for a sixty five year old. Just keep him away from the hottest lights or he’ll melt before the first close-up.

They clap.

Glyco: Hello, and welcome to The Glyco Show. Today we’ll be looking at what happens when hero worship wrecks innocent lives. What drives perfectly normal children to hurt themselves in the name of fashion? And what responsibility should role models and celebrities like Troy and Magdalene take when children start harming themselves just to be like them?

Glyco: I’m joined in the studio by Kassia Bellinski, who says her daughter, Tolerance, has become disfigured by trying to emulate her heroine. Tolerance, who is it that you wanted to look like?

Tolerance: (hesitant) I wanted to look like Magdalene.

Glyco: (solemn) I see. And what is it that you did to yourself to make you look like her?

Tolerance: (chews her lip) I put marks on my back.

Glyco: (sympathetic) Would you show these marks to us?

Tolerance: (reluctantly turns and allows her mother to lift her jumper, revealing a series of dark scars.)

There are gasps from the assembly.

Glyco: (solemn) And what did you do his with, Tolerance?

Tolerance: (quietly) I found some wire.

Kassia: It’s just ridiculous. As soon as I saw what she’d done I knew why she’d done it. I mean, she’s got Magdalene posters, she’s got the Magdalene music, the Magdalene dolls, she subscribes to the Magdalene site.

Glyco: (nodding) Now, the official Magdalene site is off limits to anyone under sixteen, isn’t I? How did she do that?

Kassia: Oh, well. I joined up for her. I mean, you do, don’t you? I wanted to say no but all her friends were already subscribed through their parents. They make it so you can’t say no.

Glyco: (solemn, nodding) I see. You’re quite right, of course. It’s the natural thing to do, isn’t it? Far better to bend a few access rules than to let your own daughter be the only one in school who can’t get into the site. And did you have any idea what you’d be letting Tolerance in for when you did that? Were the warnings clear?

Kassia: I had absolutely no idea. Tolerance never came and talked to me about what she was doing on the site, so I just assumed there was no problem. When I saw what she was actually being put through I was sickened.

Glyco: Of course, and since you value your daughter’s right to privacy, you didn’t see the need to supervise her while she was Tabbing in, did you? You put your faith in the industry to show some sort of restraint. A restraint which was very evidently lacking.

Kassia: I never knew.

Glyco: (sympathetic) That’s right. We showed you a selection of features from that site this morning before the show, and I think we both agree that it was pretty shocking stuff. Highly unsuitable for a sensitive little girl of just twelve such as Tolerance.

Kassia: (dabbing her eyes) That’s right.

Glyco: (nodding, solemn) But despite the way this sort of material would obviously affect your impressionable little girl, you didn’t receive adequate warning when you signed up on her behalf, did you?

Kassia: (bottom lip quivering) No. I mean, sure, there were warnings, but they were so vague, and they didn’t specify that using the site might lead to my daughter hurting herself like that. They just warned that the site was unsuitable for anyone under sixteen. I mean, big deal. Half the sites she visits say that, don’t they?

Glyco: (sympathetic, nodding, solemn, turning to camera) We actually signed up this morning to see just how easy it was. I think our results might shock you. We only had to select our way through a handful of very sketchy warnings before we were asked to enter our Tab details for payment. Of course, there were warnings that nobody under sixteen should be allowed to access the material on the site, but at no point did the site ask us to declare that we were not subscribing on behalf of a minor. Effectively, the security software turned a blind eye and allowed us to register without even bothering to check our motives.

The audience look solemn and shake their heads.

Glyco: Later, when we Tabbed into the site as a member, there were no questions asked other than our username and password. At no point were our research team challenged to confirm that they were over sixteen, or asked whether somebody else had subscribed on their behalf. What do you think about that, Kassia?

Kassia: Well, it’s just wrong, isn’t it? They don’t care who gets hurt. “

Glyco: (nodding) So, Kassia. As a loving parent whose life has been torn apart by this tragedy, whose responsibility do you think it should be to make sure that your children can’t be harmed in this way?

Kassia: Well, I think it should be up to the site owners and to Magdalene. You know, I’m sure there are like, other parents out there who want to subscribe for their own daughters and while ever the site administrators allow it to happen then children are being put at risk. We’re supposed to be able to trust them.

The audience nod in agreement.

Glyco: (facing camera) So there you go. A mother who subscribed to a perfectly innocent seeming site on behalf of her twelve year old daughter now has to pick up the pieces of her shattered life. She somehow has to come to terms with the fact that the irresponsibility of the site owners has disfigured her beautiful girl forever. Now, naturally, Kassia will be litigating against this ruthless profiteering, and trying to bring out some degree of accountability from the heartless individuals concerned. After the break we’ll be speaking with Trace Mackintosh from Cashcow Direct on how you too can make a claim for compensation against the mental anguish of peer pressure induced injuries.

Glyco: But in the meantime, we’d like to know what you think. Remember, your opinion is very important to us, so please Tab now to send your message to the faceless bureaucrats who make money from other people’s grief. Your Premium Rate Poll for today, is: “Should the media companies be doing more to stop little children coming to harm?” Normal Tab Premium-Plus rates apply.

Glyco: Thanks, Tolerance. You can put your top back down now.

(applause)

* * *

“Good morning, sleepy head.”

Reuben’s eyes open slowly. Reluctantly. When he eventually notices Clara he opens them wider, a smile of recognition creasing his sleep-set cheeks. He doesn’t speak, but his smile widens as he remembers the night before. Sinking back against his pillow, his face is the image of bliss.

“I hope you don’t mind. I found a robe.” Clara tells him. She’s kneeling on the edge of the bed with her knees just showing under the hem. Delicate rich blue material hugging her body alluringly.

“It’s yours.” Reuben says. “Or rather, it’s been put there for you to use. The concierge staff will have been notified.”

“Ah yes.” Clara is suddenly theatrically cross. “Those.”

Reuben frowns. “What?”

“I was looking for juice in the refrigerator.”

“Ah.” His eyes are sparkling despite his sympathetic expression.

“Exactly. He nearly scared me to death.”

“Not exactly what you’d expect, is it?” Reuben tries to stop a smile breaking out.

“You think? Reuben, you have a Chinese man in your fridge. This isn’t exactly what I’d call normal.”

He nods, perusing the matter with fake concern. “It isn’t?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t hear me scream. I thought I was going to set the sprinklers off. Mind you, I think he got the biggest shock.”

“Poor fellow. Did he have any English?”

“I didn’t hang around to find out! I hadn’t found the robe at that point!”

“Ah.”

“[Hey, Clara! How’s it going, sweetie?]” Cheryl’s voice in her head almost makes her turn round, but it’s no great shock.

“Hi, Cheryl.” Clara says, rolling her eyes apologetically for Reuben to see. “I’m absolutely fine, thank you very much. How’s things with you?“

“Clara’s had a bit of a shock from our domestics this morning, Cheryl.” Reuben says, addressing his comments to Clara so casually that he might have been using a pod phone.

“How was I to know they have a back door into his fridge?” Clara protests. “Why can’t they just pop round and stock it while he’s out?”

Clara listens to the disembodied voice and nods. “Cheryl says you’re far too lazy and you should be sorting out your own food at your age.”

Reuben raises his hands. “Not my choice, sweetheart. It’s all part of the service and I’m afraid it’s not negotiable. In half an hour someone will set breakfast for me. An hour later someone else will clear it away. When I need to get dressed I’ll find the right clothes for the day laid out ready on this very bed. Sometimes I think they must use elves.”

“From China.” Clara reminds him. “Cheap elves.” She hesitates for a moment, listening to the voice again. “Okay,” She sighs. “Reuben, I’m sorry but I need to get dressed and go. We’ve had an interview rescheduled on us but we really need this one.”

“Of course. Can I order you a car?”

Clara is already getting her things together. “No, thanks. Cheryl’s got one on the way. Will you tell the Fridge Fairy I’m sorry to have terrified him?” She shrugs off the robe and slips back into the dress, wishing she’d brought a change of clothes with her. But who turns up on a first date with an overnight bag? God, I’m such a floozy. She tells herself, searching for her shoes.

* * *

I don’t know if it was just because I was in love, (because I most certainly was, even if I hadn’t realised it back then) but the sunset that evening was the most beautiful I could remember. Like someone had taken a torch to the sky. Black, smoky clouds tinged with fiery red and yellow. Even if I’d been on my own I might have stopped to watch.

Go on, then. Where was your first time? It sounds like every teenager’s dream, but I can honestly say that Maggie made a man of me in an Avon! Now that might sound like one of the classiest ways you could possibly break your duck, but it didn’t leave us a lot of room for manoeuvre. At least it had a fold-away steering wheel and no gear stick to worry about, but as fantastic as the idea of making love in the world’s sexiest sports car might have been, I think we were both secretly wishing we had access to a good sized family camper, or even a reasonably private doorway.

In the end we settled for what we could get. I’ll let you work out the mechanics yourself, but if you ever decide to give it a try I can assure you that it is at least physically possible, as long as neither of you make any sudden movements or get too adventurous.

We had the place more or less to ourselves. People used to walk their pets there in the days before dog flu, but when we were there only people like us visited it, so there were more empty Spray-O cans than crisp packets around the unemptied bin, and we added ours to the pile in an almost solemn ritual, as someone on a hillside might add stones to a cairn.

I was drinking in that sky and replaying the last few minutes in my head, lost in the beauty of the world. Maggie was worried about me. She asked me three times whether I was okay or not, as if she kept forgetting what I’d said. But I was fine. I really was. I’d heard mates in school telling me that they didn’t know what all the fuss was about. That as soon as they’d lost their virginity they’d wondered why it had mattered so much to them. But not me. My mind was still full of the sensations of sex, the scents, the delicious wetness of it all. The feel of her flesh, the warmth of her breath. It was as if I’d just discovered colour.

We found a bench overlooking all human life. Lights twinkling, neon flashing distantly. Looking down on that part of the city made it all look like some sort of antiquated switchboard. As if the whole of humanity was some vast circuit that was busy computing the answer to some long forgotten question.

“Do they hurt?” Maggie had been running her fingers across my back, and she hesitated when she discovered the flesh hooks in my shoulders underneath the fabric of my shirt.

“Not all the time. They do when it’s cold. Or when I catch them.”

“Or when someone’s busy kicking the shit out of you.”

“That too.” There were far off sirens in different parts of the city. Their pitches distorted by their direction and softened into harmony by the distance. She turned to me in a way that got me to snap out of what ever day dream I’d been in.

“Why do you hurt yourself, Trevor?” There was a seriousness in her eyes I’d not seen before. “What does it do for you?”

At the time I'd thought I was annoyed, but looking back I was embarrassed. I shrugged my shoulders and left it at that. But she wasn’t going to leave it so easily.

“Really. I’m not going to lecture you. I’m trying to understand. What do you get out of it? I really want to know.”

I don’t think I’d really thought about it before. All the things I’d pushed under my skin, all the marks I’d made. All the blood that I’d wiped or licked away. It was just something I did. It made me me. It set me apart from the rest. And each fresh wound was a medal. Every wrinkled face that turned away was a personal victory. Each shocked observer was… It was as if they were deferring to me. But there was something else. The more outlandish I became and the more appalling it was to look at me, the more people seemed anxious to ignore me, as if they were happier to pretend I wasn’t there so that I could pass through them like smoke.

But even that didn’t sum it up. Not completely. Whenever I did something like take a ballpoint pen and gradually work it under the skin of my forearm, it was as if everything else in the universe failed to exist. This slow, deliberate act of self-mutilation was so absorbing, so completely demanding that it became the whole world. Someone once told me that he went climbing up cliff faces to find that level of concentration. He explained the act of shimmying up a rock face, hundreds of metres in the air was very similar to reading a good book. It captured the thought process to the point that it even made the passing of time seem unreal. I’d found my own Nirvana in my own way. It was that simple.

“It’s just class, isn’t it?” I shrugged, allowing her the full benefit of my teenage eloquence. “Just something to do.”

She turned away, shaking her head almost imperceptibly. “Can you see the rain?” She pointed at a patch of opacity that was eating up the streetlights like a giant spreading of nothingness.

It took me a long time, but eventually I offered an explanation of sorts. “It makes me different. And it makes people know I’m not to be messed with. Like I’ve already taken all the pain they could offer, so what would be the point in trying?” It constituted a major speech for me at that time.

“So those Toppers were just wasting their time, then? I wish they’d known.” She kept her eyes on the distant cloudburst as it spread street by slow street. I didn’t have an answer for her, but I wanted to get up and walk away. If I hadn’t been so crazy about her I might have. I think she caught me bristling, because she laughed and put her hand on my arm. “Relax, tiger. I know you could have taken them in a fair fight. And you’re right. It does make you different. That’s why I chose you. I saw something in you.”

“You did? What?”

“Potential.”

“Thanks a lot!” I was laughing, but her face never slipped.

“I’m serious.” She pulled a ringlet of hair back over her ear, leaned forward with deliberate slowness and kissed me on the lips so delicately she almost tickled. “You’ve got it in you kiddo. The hunger.”

I kissed her back as my heart picked up the beat. I could taste her warm breath against the cool air of evening. “Hungry for you.” I reached out and cupped her breast in my hand, feeling the firm resistance through the thin material of her blouse.

She shook her head. “Hunger to stand out from the crowd. Hunger to be noticed. Hunger to be seen. You want to be adored.” Her hand was around the back of my head and she pulled me close as her lips pressed harder. “It’s all in you, waiting to get out, Trevor. You’re going to be huge.”

I didn’t want to talk any more. I was feeling pretty huge already and the excitement was growing in me like rising steam. The urge to jump on her was becoming almost primal.

“This guy I work for. His job is to make people famous. A publicist.” I had her neck in my mouth and my fingers under her blouse, but she pulled away, putting her own hand between us. “You’ll meet him tomorrow morning, okay?”

“Okay.” I would have agreed to limb amputation at that point if it would have got me into her knickers again, but Maggie backed off even further.

“Listen, this man has the power to make you a god, and he will do if he sees the same in you as I do. Don’t fuck it up, okay? You need to do exactly what I tell you if it’s going to work.”

“Fine.” I made another move towards her but her hand never moved. I rolled my eyes.

“I’m not talking about a job on a market stall, Trevor. This is your one shot. You won’t get another go.”

I stopped and took a long breath, considering what she’d said. “Okay.” I said, eventually. “What do you need me to do?”

She smiled. It broke across her serious face like sunshine. “Well, first of all,” she said, handing me her Tab, “I want you to run and get another can of Spray-O from the car. After that, you can let those rampant hormones loose on me. We’ll handle the rest when we’re done.”

* * *

Three fifteen-year-old boys stand on the bridge, each lost in their own thoughts. Below them, the traffic slips by, sorted by the affluence of their drivers by lane. Poor guys to the edges, shuffling along. Rich guys to the middle, ripping up the fast track. It stinks, and one of them says so.

“Look at them fuckers.” He mutteres. “Silver spoons up their asses. Never done a day’s work an’ had it all hand to ‘em like they got the right, eh?”

The other two say nothing. They watch the sleek shapes roll beneath their feet, smelling the hot fumes in the chilly morning air. One of them has a spray paint can and is cradling it in his hands, like a pet.

“They never know what its like at the bottom o’ the pile. They never know what its like to live in Block.” The boy continues. “They spen’ they whole lives an’ never know what is to be poor, eh? Where as we –you an me, we’ll work all our lives an’ never even get close to what they got. Can’t you see it’s just.... Well, it’s fuckin’ wrong, innit?”

He looks at them both. They look at each other. He’d caught politics like a disease when he had been just eleven years old. It had changed his life, taken him in new directions, starting with a trip to a young offender’s institution for defacing a national monument and ending with him being placed on a community curfew which restricts his movements to day-lit mornings only.

They have a lot in common with the bridge. It needs attention but looks at home on the estate. It’s “their” bridge, and the monograms, (or “monikas” or “monkeys”, depending how street you want to be) make sure the rest of the world knows it. The boy feels the need to illustrate his point. He looks around for something appropriate, spotting a block of concrete that they’ve used earlier as a target stand.

He walks over to the dusty grey lump, reaches out with both hands and, taking care to keep his hands away from the rusted metal worms imbedded within it, hauls it on to the bridge wall. The others watch warily. Neither of them wanting to be the wet blanket who says the sensible thing.

“Its all about power, eh?” He tells them. “Da thrill of power. Its what they getting’ every day. When they hire, and they fire. When they says yes or no to a loan. When they chooses to prosecute. When they decide not to operate. It’s all about that. It puts them up high on rest of us.”

One of them shrugs. “Nothin new there eh? Thats the way it is.”

He nods. “But I found out somethin. Got my head round it, see? Power ain’t jus somethin’ you gets given to you. You can take it whenever you like, eh? Look at this block. If I drop it now, one o’ them fuckers down there’s gonna have himself a very shitty fuckin day, right?”

Neither of the other two says anything, but they don’t look particularly comfortable.

He takes the block in his hands and tests the weight of it. Then, slowly, he extends his arms. “It’s therapy. Not like creative writin’ shit they get you do at the centre. This is real, eh? Them people down there. They got the power o’ life an death, an’ they use it every day without even breakin’ sweat. Well, now so I. I got same power now. Over them. See? Eh?”

He holds the block for a few moments more before pulling it back.

“Come on, Clam.” He says to the boy on his left. “Give a go.”

His friend shifts uncomfortably. “What’s the point? I mean, it’s easy I’m not gonna drop it. So it’s not a choose. Is it?”

“Give a go.” He repeats, deliberately.

Clam dutifully lifts the block over the edge. His arms straining as he takes the weight.

“Now. Think ‘bout what you doin’. Really think ‘bout it. Is it really easy you not goin’ drop? Is it done deal?“ His voice is low, so that they have to concentrate to hear him above the traffic. “You could let go right now if you wanted, and there nothing any them fucks down there can do ‘bout it, eh?. That power. That real power. Feel it. Just there.”

After a long moment, with his arms trembling through the effort of it, Clam brings the block back to rest on the bridge wall. He nods, then grins broadly.

The first boy pats him on the back, his eyes wide with the pictures in his head. “Mus’ be what goes through thinks of a suicide bomber, eh?. Before blowin; everyone to bits. When could go either way. It’s like, jus’ before he gonna do it. He as big as God.”

“Big deal, coz then he dead, eh?” The third boy laughs.

“Yes. But it him choice, innit?” The first of them is suddenly straight faced again, turning his attention back to the misshapen block, thoughtfully. ”It him decision.”

* * *

Clara’s taxi is heading west on the elevated section of Parkway two twenty six, in a clear lane reserved for those prepared to pay for the privilege. At peak time such as this, it’s a very expensive method of travel but one that ensures she’ll make it on time to the big interview.

To be fair, the taxi driver doesn’t stand a chance. He doesn’t know it but his whole life has been building up to his moment, the microscopic, unnoticed events of previous days, the decisions taken, big and small. Choice of wife, choice of job, every single uncounted detail has put him on an intersecting trajectory with a lump of falling masonry.

Clara isn’t watching the skies. She’s busy getting changed in the back of the cab. Cheryl has organised a change of clothes for her and now she’s trying to slip into them in such a way that doesn’t give every other road user a free peep show. It’s not an easy task. The cabbie has at least two mirrors and probably a couple of blister cams recording her antics for posterity.

The driver’s seen it all before, of course. At least that’s what he’d tell you. He’s making a show of not watching, beyond the odd furtive glance. But he’s made double sure that he’s getting it all on camera. It’ll give him something to do later, while it’s quiet.

“Couldn’t I have done this in he rest room when I get there?” Clara asks her disembodied boss, fighting blindly against the fasteners at the back of her dress that Reuben had so casually loosened the night before. She lowers herself further, trying her best to keep below the windows. “And it wouldn’t have hurt you to think about tinted-”

At the moment the concrete block hits the front bonnet the vehicle is well up to its upper cruising speed. The combined inertia of both objects is enough to completely flatten the engine block, buckling the front axle and causing the front end to embed itself into the tarmac. The block, unable to crumple in the same way, is catapulted back up through the front window of the cab, taking a good portion of the driver’s left side with it on its flight into the roof.

The crash foam jets start to spew their stuff, and Clara watches it all from behind her toughened screen. The barrier is there for the safety of the driver, but now it serves to preserve her against the splinters of metal and glass that neatly shred the skin from the man’s skull. She’s screaming, still gripping the cherry red blouse that she was just about to put on. As the tyres lose their grip on the road and the whole vehicle slews over to the left she feels the first jolt as the car lifts from the parkway and begins to barrel roll towards the central reservation.

And then she’s silent. She’s pinned to the back of her seat as the vehicle nose dives into the top of the crash barrier to be carried by its own momentum into the oncoming traffic in the next lane. As the jets surround her with choking bubbles and blot out her view, Clara hears the sound of screeching tyres drawing closer as the first of many vehicles smashes its way into what’s left of her ride.

* * *

In a far distant room, in a very anonymous looking building, there is an unimpressive looking array of processors and neural networks which are collectively known as Cheryl. The fractal keys responsible for input feed in the new data where it is decoded, re-sequenced, and served to her processing units in a language only she could understand.

Along with the regular sensory information is a new signal.

A flavour that this i-con has never tried before.

As more sensory input is decoded, this new signal is intensified, with the same ninety-four-digit code repeating again and again. References are checked. Comparisons are made, and conclusions are drawn.

This is fear. This is panic.

Terror.

Cheryl tastes it.

Savours it.

And decides that it is good.

* * *