Zero history

“Well, then,” said Ajay, running his hand through his waterfall. “Well, then.” Like a child who’d just been told, in July, that it was actually, now, officially, absolutely, Christmas morning.

›››

“You aren’t sorry you didn’t quit before the shit hit?” Heidi asked. They were back in her room, where Hollis saw that the Breast Chaser had been partially painted, though wasn’t yet under construction. There was a faint smell of aerosol enamel.

Hollis shook her head.

Ajay was pacing excitedly by the window.

“Calm the fuck down,” Heidi snapped at him. “Elvis isn’t leaving the building. Get used to it.” Garreth had asked to be taken to Number Four, in order to make some calls and use his laptop. To get him there, in the chair, they’d had to go along a hallway, to the rear of the building, and take a service elevator that Hollis had never seen before. Utterly devoid of Tesla charm, being German, nearly silent, and highly efficient, it got them to their floor quickly, but then Hollis became confused about the route to the room. The hallways were mazelike. Garreth, however, had remembered the way exactly.

“So who are these people, supposed to be fucking with us?” asked Heidi. “The dipshit with the bandage. How scary is that?”

“He’s a clothing designer,” said Hollis.

“If they aren’t all pussies,” said Heidi, “who is?”

“It’s the man he works for,” Hollis said. “A retired Special Forces major named Gracie.”

“Gracie? What about fucking Mabel? You’re totally making this shit up, aren’t you?”

“It’s his last name. And Garreth’s last name, while I remember, is now ‘Wilson.’ That was what he told Bigend it was at breakfast. Gracie’s an arms dealer. Bigend was spying on some business of his, in South Carolina. Well, Milgrim was, on his orders. In the process of that, Oliver Sleight, who you met in Vancouver but probably don’t remember, Bigend’s IT security specialist, defected to Gracie-”

“But you’re in love, right?” Heidi interrupted.

“Yes,” said Hollis, surprising herself.

“Well,” said Heidi, “I’m glad that’s sorted. The rest of this shit’s just shit, right? Ajay gonna get to violate his ASBO, or what?”

There was a rap at the door.

“Who the fuck?” inquired Heidi, loudly.

“Garreth, luv.”

“He likes you,” said Ajay, delighted.

“He likes you too,” said Heidi, “so try to keep your fucking pants on.”

She opened the door, held it as Garreth powered the scooter in, then closed, locked, and chained it.

“All good,” said Garreth, to Hollis. “Old chap’s signed off, he’s calling the solicitor about the bank, calling Charlie.” He turned the chair toward Ajay. “Know this Milgrim, then?”

“No,” said Ajay.

“Are Milgrim and Ajay of a similar height?”

Heidi raised her eyebrows, considered. “Close enough.”

“Build?”

“Milgrim’s a fucking weed.”

“Bigend guessed ten stone. But Ajay’s not that broad, really,” said Garreth, considering him. “Wiry. Core strength. No excess muscle-mass. Wiry can do weed. Done any acting, Ajay?”

“At school,” said Ajay, pleased. “Islington Youth Theater.”

“I haven’t met Milgrim either. We’ll both have to. Can you do a rupert for me, then? How does a rupert walk inspection?”

Ajay straightened, thumbs aligned with the seams of his sweatpants, assumed a supercilious expression, and strolled past Heidi, taking her in with a quick and disapproving glance.

“Good,” said Garreth, nodding.

“Milgrim,” said Heidi to Garreth, “is your basic pasty-faced Caucasian fuck. You couldn’t find a whiter guy.”

“Ah,” said Garreth, “but that’s the art of the thing, isn’t it?”