wanted to clear his head. But he would have to explain to them, and worry them, and involve them again in his life.
So he turned, dazed as if on painkillers, and dragged his way back to Goodge Street station. Everything around him – the Eisenhower Security Center, the cenotaph in front of it – was like reassuring old friends seen after a divorce. There was the Reject Shop… no, it wasn't. It was now something called Cargo. Change swept over everything like a tide; turn your back and it's as over as the First World War.
Michael tried to find the flower. The flower was whatever he had touched when Luis had left him. The joy in the world, in himself. I have seen it. It was real. It can come when things go wrong.
It's strongest when you have been brave and strong – not when you've fucked up, messed everyone over, lost it. Not when you've thrown your life out of the window.
There was now a porn shop on Tottenham Court Road.
Well there would be; they had been moving north out of Soho for some time, as real estate got too valuable even for the sex industry, and only cappuccino, it seemed, could turn a penny, or rather, enough pennies. GAZE the WORD the shop called itself. There were ribbons of coloured plastic across the door. There always were, in porn shops. Like ketchup bottles always looking the same.
'Well hello, Professor,' said a voice.
Someone was standing in the doorway. Michael blinked; it took him a moment to recognize who it was.
The guard from Goodge Street station. He was wearing a fancy T-shirt, the kind you're not supposed to tuck in, and the same blue security trousers that made his legs and butt look somehow bolshy.
'Have a look round, don't be shy,' the Guard said. He looked chunkier. Perhaps he had been working out, but his mouth still habitually sneered. He held apart the plastic strips as if opening a dressing gown.
'Come on. I'm sure I've got something for you.' He emphasized 'you', as if he knew and understood Michael.
Michael had no direction, no reason to do anything else, so he went inside. It was bright like Christmas, full of colour.
'I expect you're surprised to see me here,' said the Guard. 'I suppose you could say I found my metier.' He grinned cheekily. 'Here, have a look at these.'
He handed Michael video boxes covered with coloured computer printout. The images were of naked men.
'I get these from round the world,' he said. He dipped down behind the counter, and pulled out a folder. He opened it up, to show clear wallets full of more laser-printed images.
'American,' he said proudly. 'Uncensored. You won't find this sort of stuff for sale anywhere else in the West End. Not at these prices. Beautiful stuff.'
Michael noticed: he's wearing a wedding ring.
'Look at this. Now this is the guvnor… Max Schnarr. He goes all round the world: Russia, Eastern Europe, Quebec, all sorts of strange places. Picks up all the best-looking men himself, and they're so besotted with him that they let him make a film. He's in ' em himself. This one's from Venezuela.'
Michael stared, bored beyond description, bored into some netherworld where nothing you said made any difference.
'Hold on.' The Guard leaned forward. 'I've got some really special stuff, if this kind of thing is too tame. Red, yellow, brown.' He leaned back, and waited.
'What do your mates next door think of this?' Michael asked. Goodge Street station was three doors down.
'That lot? I just tell ' em what I'm making these days. It beats working for London Underground, I can tell you.'
'You're not gay,' said Michael.
'Doesn't mean to say I don't like pleasing men.' The Guard gave a wobble of his eyebrows, and something queasy washed off him. It was attraction, but attraction as if it were music played backwards. It was revulsion so strong that it mimicked attraction.
'Listen, you're not in this line of work, I'll tell you how I do it?' His blanched skin and blue blank eyes shone. He wanted the Professor to understand that he was not some stupid oik. 'You can buy this stuff with copyright off the Internet. You just pay a one-off fee. It's expensive, but it comes with all rights, and you download it at three am when the lines are clear. And, it's lovely quality, MPEG 2 compression. You can transfer it to DVD or video. The punters could do the same, but it would take them forty-five minutes to download, and they're bound to lose the line halfway through. I got in a leased line, that costs, I can tell you, but I got a thriving mail-order business. In fact, I had that before I opened the shop. I want to become the main source for gay porn in the entire UK.'
Michael started to look through the files.
'I tell you some of this stuff is really strong. I mean, under-the-counter even in America. You've seen nothing like it, mate.' The Underground Guard leaned forward. 'Come on, tell me what you're into.' Michael could feel his breath on his cheek: he could smell it. Mint on mint; there was a Polo circling his mouth even now. It clicked every time he spoke. 'I've got it for you, or I can get it. Come on, you can tell me.'
Michael remembered Phil in his porn phase. 'They cost fifty thousand dollars to make and return two hundred and fifty. Do it six times and you're a dollar millionaire.'
The Guard was pleased. 'You know how it works then. I mean, I'm looking for an Angel.'
Michael looked up. 'What?'
'Angel. You know. Theatrical investor. To put up the money. I'm trying to make a video of my own. Because I mean you're absolutely right, the money gets made in production. It's not like that for any other part of the film industry. For regular films it's distribution, but with this stuff it's all under-the-counter, which is too expensive and slow, or on the Net, which frankly is too cheap. You're giving the stuff away on the Net, which is why it's available on one-off. I'd love to turn it around and sell distribution back to the States. Hey. The British are coming, eh?'
'That could be the title,' said Michael.
The Underground Guard was getting excited. He chuckled. 'You're dead right.'
'My project just closed down,' said Michael. 'I have no money to invest.'
'Ah well, one day my ship will come in,' said the Guard. 'In the meantime, think about what you're into and let me know. Like I say, if I don't have it, I know where to find it.'
'Don't…' Michael stopped at the door. 'Don't the police bother you?'
'Naw. They'd rather people got into this stuff than pick up some disease. But only because the drugs are so expensive on the National Health. Sooner or later, I'll end up in jail. Goes with the territory.'
His blunt pale face established beyond doubt; he'd do well in prison.
Michael thanked the Guard and left.
The logical part of Michael's brain got him home, regretfully, coldly.
Michael sat in his flat in the dark, listening to traffic and the shouts of kids from the clubs.
Michael tasted emptiness. There were times when he wanted Luis back. But that would prove Luis's point in a way. He would even take Philip back. He would take anything, Michael. It is getting hard to see any progress in all this.
He thought of the Guard's stubby pale body, its little potbelly, the undoubtedly uncircumcised cock, and the thought produced a weary sort of sexual response.
OK. Come on then.
The air wavered and parted its lips, and the Guard stepped into Michael's sitting room.
Why does God suffer the Devil?
'Nice place,' the Guard said, casing it.
Then he said, 'Shit.' Then he had to sit down. He'd understood faster than most what he was.
'You're not real,' Michael said, still bored, still exhausted. 'You're a copy. I make copies of people I think I want to have sex with. It's a miracle. If you can figure it out, tell me.'
