A passenger knocked him and shook him out of his reverie. The spinelights were now almost fully dimmed. Docklands was falling back into night, its most honest state. A void site rattled past, a dead stain on the city. Up and down the carriage, soft yellow lights snapped on. The window opposite Jack became a mirror, showing him a man at once exhausted and far from the peace that exhaustion normally brings.
[ You need a shave, Jackie boy. When I’m in charge, I’ll make sure you’re always presentable.]
Jack thought of Fist’s glossy wooden chin and grimaced. The carriage filled with commuters. More and more shuffled on at every stop. Clothes splashed across with sigils barged against Jack. They were so poorly made. Roughly cut edges were fraying, coarse stitching was coming loose and buttons were missing. Nothing fit anyone well. All of this would be invisible if Jack were onweave. The sigils would call brilliant deceptions from distant servers. He imagined a riot of fashionable colours and thought of the third snowflake, vivid in the sun. He wondered how many of the people on the train were letting themselves perceive those great, cold visitors, and of those how many understood them to be beautiful. Probably none.
The mass of commuters warmed the carriage. Jack could see no real reason to dismount. He dozed lightly.
[ You’ll have to get off to pee, at least,] said Fist, [unless you’ve really lost it.]
The commuters left. The train danced in an endless circle. Jack dreamed of Kingdom. The god was congratulating him on being chosen as a puppeteer. He was full of his usual passion for humanity. ‘I built you all homes in space,’ he said urgently, his workman’s hands emphasising his words. ‘Now you must defend them.’ A transport security team woke Jack suddenly. They flashed his retina to prove his identity. The light was like a punch in the eye. Jack was asked about his destination. When he couldn’t answer, he was hustled off the train. He pushed back and one of the guards hit him. A studded glove reopened the cut in the side of his face. Body armour could never be virtual.
[Don’t mess up your pretty cheek, Jack. The new management doesn’t like that at all.]
Blank metal buildings rose up around him. Crowds bustled by. Sweatheads tugged at the crowd like repressed memories. Jack tried not to think of his parents, but the past had hooked him in its barbs. He craved oblivion. He didn’t want to go back to Ushi’s, and couldn’t face finding another bar cheap enough to serve him. Licensing restrictions stopped bottle shops from serving the unweaved. He had to be turned away from several before he gave up.
[ There’s always the hotel,] whispered Fist. [ They’ll sell you something. Keep you inside for a bit too.]
‘Oo, hello!’ Charles said as Jack entered reception. ‘Lovely to see you again.’ He stuck his hand over the counter to shake.
[ He’s very effusive,] said Fist. [ I’m sure he’s been tippling. He’ll help you.]
‘Oh, I’ve been on the gin tonight,’ said Charles when Jack asked about a drink. ‘Only a couple.’ He swayed. ‘Making my mood a little more positive, you understand don’t you? But you want a little whisky? I’m sure that will cheer you up too.’
‘Shall I wait here?’
‘No. You go and put your feet up. Your bottle will be delivered to your room. Personally!’
Charles was true to his word. Ten minutes later, and he was announcing himself with a cheerful knock at Jack’s door. ‘Cooee!’ he chirped. ‘Only me!’ The bottle was thrust into Jack’s hands. ‘If you want anything harder,’ whispered Charles, winking theatrically, ‘I have a friend who can help you out.’
‘Thank you,’ said Jack ‘but no.’
‘Forgive me, I had to ask. I’m on commission!’
Charles bounced away down the corridor, his brilliantined hair shining under the strip lights. He turned back and waved goodbye before disappearing round the corner.
[ What a strange man,] said Jack.
[ You should be grateful – he’s sorted out your bloody booze.]
Very soon, Jack was very drunk. The whisky tasted as cheap as it was. After a few hard, sour glasses, Jack stopped wincing with every sip. It soused his mind and blurred the world. As he became drunk, so did Fist. The little puppet wheeled and staggered round the room. He’d conjured up a small crystal glass and was matching Jack shot for virtual shot. Full white tie shimmered into being around him. The clothing changed him, making him look taller and slimmer.
[ You should get that cut seen to,] he shrilled. Jack had forgotten about it. As Fist mentioned it, the throbbing itch returned. [ I really don’t want to be wearing it myself.]
The puppet was pointing an unsteady finger at Jack. He staggered, bumped into an armchair and then fell to the ground, limbs clattering against each other. His glass rolled across the floor, leaving a sodden pool in the carpet. [Shit,] he slurred. The glass and the pool disappeared. Jack tossed off the last of one drink and poured himself another. Fist was lying on his front. He pushed himself up on his elbows. His high voice buzzed in Jack’s head.
[ It should have been a nice, quiet couple of months, shouldn’t it? Nobody to see, nothing to do, just wait for little Hugo to turn into a real boy. But you had to turn detective. You selfish wanker!]
Jack threw his glass at Fist. It flew straight through him and bounced off the wall behind him. He pushed his chair back, and rose unsteadily to his feet. [Careful now!] shouted Fist. [Careful!] Jack staggered towards him. Fist started pushing himself backwards across the floor. Jack collapsed to his knees. He triggered the protocols that forced Fist to respond directly to the physical world, then grabbed him. Fist screamed and beat at Jack’s hands with his little fists. A hand on Fist’s chest and Jack could reach his throat, throttling him while beating the back of his head against the floor.
[Let me go!] squealed Fist. He sank his teeth into the ball of Jack’s thumb. There was simulated pain. Jack ignored it. [ You’ll pay for this!] Fist’s voice was thin, cracked with rage and the pressure that Jack was putting on him. [ You bastard!]
Jack realised just how much pain he was causing Fist when the room’s overlay systems activated. Suddenly, he was in a dark garden. A half-moon glimmered down, a dream made from data. Surprise made his hands release. There was a clacking sound as the puppet ran, his choked little voice swearing back at Jack. The noise died away and Jack was alone, surrounded by moon-silvered memories of a dead life. He lay back on the pathway and felt the ancient coolness of stone rise into him. The moon above held a dark wreath of shredded clouds around itself. The garden was silent but for the sighing of the wind, the soft whispering of its central fountain and Jack’s own breathing. The freshness of the night went some way to counterbalancing the whisky’s fog. Jack reached out, trying to pull Fist back into his mind, but there was nothing there to hold on to. This disturbed him. In advance of the end of licence, Fist was achieving unprecedented levels of independence. Jack wondered what new protocols the promise of freedom was calling into life.
The pathway stones pulled the last of the whisky heat from him. What was soothing became uncomfortable. He stood up, swaying slightly, and realised that he was still very drunk. There was a distant shout – ‘You bastard, Jack, I’ll get you for this,’ – then silence reasserted itself. Fist’s absence was a blessing. The path led to an archway set in a hedge. Jack went through it and found himself in a new part of the garden. The light seemed brighter. Looking up, he saw that the moon was now full. It illuminated flowerbeds noticeably more verdant than any he’d previously seen. The beds circled a plinth of shining marble that held a figure carved out of soft purple light – Ifor’s newly installed avatar. There was, Jack remembered, a message waiting for him from the biped. He stepped forward and summoned it.