White and Other Tales of Ruin

“You could hide,” she said. “You could leave me, let them come after me and catch me if they can — ”

Tom did not even honour this with a response.

Skin led them to the rear of the stage and across a narrow metal walkway, connecting the stage platform with the blank outside wall. There was a flimsy handrail, the only thing between them and the floor a hundred feet below, but it had been distorted at several points by bullet or shrapnel impacts. None of them trusted it.

Tom felt naked and exposed, expected the intrusive kiss of a bullet at any moment. The way Honey moved ahead of him — shoulders hunched, arms pulled in, legs slightly bent — he thought she did too.

The Slaughterhouse had gone amazingly quiet since the mercenaries killed Tom’s doppelganger. Tom could still hear the clambering, clanking footsteps of the hunters as they searched for Honey, but the clubbers had all fallen silent, either dead or shocked dumb. Perhaps they feared that now the killers had found and killed their target, any slight sound would merely set them on the rampage again.

Tom, Honey and Skin reached the wall. Skin led them through a door, cleverly concealed in the shadows of a concrete overhang. It emerged onto the head of a staircase. Tom stood on the landing and looked down, down, until the flights disappeared in a grey haze. It seemed far deeper than the club.

“It’s the only way I can think of to get you out,” Skin said. “It goes straight down to the basements. The theatres. From there you can get out onto the streets or down into the sewers and tunnels… just about anywhere.”

“They’re only looking for me now,” Honey said. “Tom, who was that?”

“The Baker.”

“I thought he was dead?”

Tom nodded, waved his hands to clear his confusion. “He is, he is! But… remember at the lab, that cabinet? Me. My clone. The Baker not only gave me love, but ensured it was protected as well. He knew that if I ever had cause to return to the lab it would be because I was in trouble. How he could have known… how he could have imagined…”

“You really meant the world to him, didn’t you?” Honey asked. It was a strange thing to say. Tom didn’t know how to respond.

“Don’t mind me,” Skin said, “but can we talk as we walk? It’s very quiet in there…”

They stood silently for a few seconds, listening for sounds of pursuit, listening for anything. Maybe the two mercenaries were motionless now… standing somewhere in the club… listening… listening for the sounds of escape…

“Quietly,” Skin whispered, slipping down the first flight of stairs. They’d descended eight flights before Tom spoke again.

“They think I’m dead.”

“They’ll probe the corpse,” Skin said from in front. “Genetic tests.”

“The did. The Baker would have thought of that. It’s a clone of me, it’s… me.”

“He really was a crazy old bastard, wasn’t he?” Skin laughed, before turning and starting down another flight.

“What? What makes you say that?”

Skin stopped and looked back up past Honey at Tom. He didn’t look any more welcoming than he had when they’d first arrived a few minutes before, but now there was a hint of humour in his eyes. Cruel humour.

“He’s a bit of a legend, in some parts,” Skin said. “Places like this. To people like us. And you, too. The artificial looking for love. Almost a fairy tale!”

“Skin!” Honey said quietly.

“Honey? What’s he on about?”

She looked at Tom and shook her head, looking so sad.

“Honey?”

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Honey said, not looking at either man. “Tom, the basements may interest you. It’s where some of the chopping takes place.”

Skin started on down again, followed by Honey, Tom bringing up the rear. Tom thought of making love with Honey, hugging her, being with her… and it all felt one way. He looked at her bloodied back and blood-caked head as they hurried down the stairs, trying to see inside. He wasn’t sure he’d like what he saw. She hadn’t changed, she’d expanded. She’d been right. He didn’t know her at all, and any sense that he did was misplaced, a falsehood brought on by love and his need to love.

After a few more flights, when it looked as if they’d evaded the mercenaries, Tom asked: “You don’t love me, do you?”

Skin snorted, but Honey turned and looked at him with wide eyes.

“How could I not love the man who risked everything to get me away from that bastard?”

“But you don’t. Not really. Not truly.”

Honey averted her eyes, looking down at her feet. It was answer enough for Tom, but she had to go and spell it out, had to destroy whatever illusion he could rescue from what had happened here. “Tom… I can’t. I’m artificial. Artificials don’t love. You know that.”

“I’m artificial!” he said. “I love. The Baker made sure of it, he gave me a virus, and I’ve given it to you and-”

“You really are priceless,” Skin said. He was standing on a landing looking back up the stairwell, a grin splitting his face. Tom couldn’t tell whether he’d been chopped or not. If he had, it was internal.

“Why did you come to him?” Tom asked, nodding at Skin.

“I told you, to say goodbye.”

“I don’t believe you.” Tom was flushed now, jealous, embarrassed at the rejection, angry at Honey’s use of him.

“It’s true!” Honey said again. “ To say goodbye and… ask for his release. Skin and I are connected. Psychically. He likes to watch me sometimes when I’m working, it’s his vice and he paid me well and that’s it, I swear!”

“Swear all you want. You used me to escape, you lead me on, you told me everything I wanted to know. Fuck off. Fuck off with your human lover and — ”

“Tom,” she said quietly, softly. His heart sank. The Baker’s virus had worked on him for sure, because he felt such an emptiness when he saw the lack of love in her, such a sense of abandonment. “Tom, I’m so sorry. I had to get away from Hot Chocolate Bob. You came along and offered me that, how could I not take it? But I feel like…. I could love. You. Maybe it’ll take longer to have an effect on me. Maybe it’s more than a virus. It’ll grow, not like something fake or artificial.”

“We could have been killed!”

“You already have,” she said. “Thanks to the Baker, everyone thinks you’re dead. So you’re free.”

Tom thought about this. And he thought about how the Baker’s virus had had years to affect him. “The Baker told me it would be perfect,” he said.

“Mad old fuck,” Skin said, shaking his head. Honey spun on him.

“He may have been mad, but at least he sought the right thing. He found it in Tom. Let me go, Doug.”

She turned back to Tom, and she was crying artificial tears from artificial eyes.

“So what do we do now?” Tom said. “Are you leaving?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going with you.”

“Tom, you’re free, Hot Chocolate Bob thinks you’re dead, you can-“

“I’m going with you. I still believe in the Baker. That is, if…”

Honey smiled and to Tom she was beautiful, even after everything. Even her tears.

“How about planting a seed first?” she said. “I need a charge and… well, it’s the least we can do.”

“What do you mean?”

Honey turned back to Skin, who stood leaning against the wall like a petulant child. Tom could see now how he’d been chopped: dazzling blue eyes; perfect designer stubble; a squared jaw which did not suit his face. Vanity personified.

“Doug, does this place still have the buzz units?”