“And that doesn’t bother you?”
“Hah no! My mother was cremated many years ago and now resembles the contents of an ashtray. He will experience no sexual pleasure, just gritty chafing.”
At the far end of the ward, shrouded in shadow, sits a lone soldier, motionless in a dirty towel dressing gown.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“He is dead,” Holubec answers.
“Dead?”
“Yes. But we do not bury him because losing part of the team is bad for morale.”
“Isn’t it bad for morale staring at a dead body morning, noon and night?” says Malmot, displaying some form of empathy for once.
“Oh, they do not know he is dead,” says Holubec. “We have had him embalmed and a urine-dispensing pump fitted. The others avoid him because he stinks of the wee, yes?”
“A urine pump? Your own invention, of course?”
“No. Strange to declare, it is, how you say, off-the-peg model. That is the joy of the Internet.”
“Yes,” replies Malmot simply, recalling his own adventures in cyberspace. Then something catches his eye. “Blue urine?”
“It is the agency temps,” Holubec blusters, “they have the sick sense of humour and the morals of jackals. I try to stop them but they…”
“I don’t care,” says Malmot. “As long as the deeds you do for me deliver the results I require, you can sleep safe, knowing that your weird antics remain your own business. My soul concern is that you help me with my idiot.”Holubec nods frantically.
“Then I will be taking you to a place where we may observe him and you can detail to me his, how you say, deficiencies.”
Now Malmot nods.
“Then let it be so.”
They turn a corner. The miniature train passes overhead, laden with television remote controls.
The temperature drops as they delve ever deeper into Stemset’s endless burrows, through another million miles of grey, featureless concrete and cold, clattering footsteps.
Steep stone stairs take them upwards. The fire escape takes them outside. A parapet winds around the fourth story exterior of the building. Another door takes them inside. A man viewing monitors sucks in his stomach and fastens his fly. He appears to be eating a large meal. The room is arid, filled with the smell of obsolete electrical equipment. Two banks of thoroughly antiquated monitors reveal the comings and goings of the facility staff in skewed, zebra-striping images. Crackling electrics and feedback provide the soundtrack.
Holubec urges the man aside, where upon he (the man) sits down on a pile of remote controls, undoes his trouser button, unleashes his gut and quickly resumes eating. Holubec regards him with disgust. Malmot wonders what the meal might be. The little train toots in through the air conditioning duct. The man stands and tips a serviette full of short, greasy bones into its tiny wagons. He licks his fingers and waves it goodbye. His trousers fall down. He turns to Holubec, who stares like the gorgon and sends him scuttling out of the room, muttering apologies.
“Louder!” Holubec barks at the disappearing figure.
“I said I’m sorry, Sir!” the man pleads through the closing door.
“Debased ape,” mutters the doctor. Malmot smiles approvingly.Holubec resumes his air of professional grandeur.
“So, to reception,” he says, adjusting the equipment, “and the unfathomable mysteries of your idiot friend. Look! There he is. I think Michelle may be about to be hitting him with the hole punch.”
“I never said he was a friend.”
“Your relative?”
“In Christ’s name, no!”
“So then what? A bald yeti you discovered with hilarious consequences?”
“He’s the face of my latest marketing campaign,” says Malmot, clearly lying.
“But he is a halfwit?” says the sceptical doctor.
“Exactly!” Malmot answers, thinking on his feet. “A blank canvas. For others to, er, project themselves upon.”
“If he is a canvas, then someone has scrawled across him. Picasso, perhaps? A bit of that Kandinsky guy? I am seeing a problem with his eye. His tongue we have mentioned earlier. Do you mean him to be like this? Is he the ‘before’ part of an advert?”
“Regrettably not. He’s both the ‘during’ and ‘after’. I was hoping you could tidy him up a little; make him more presentable; less abhorrent to polite society. You’ll notice if you freeze-frame – Yes, that’s it. Now zoom in a little – that he can appear quite handsome. It’s just the moving and talking that ruins the deception.”
“Then do not let him.”
“I’m afraid he must. He has to appear in public. Or, at least ‘appear’ to appear in public, if you understand?”
“No. Am I needing to?”
“Not desperately.”
“Good. Then I will give you my medical opinion: I can be stabilising the eyes with an injection to the optic muscles. It will stop them wandering independently. He will only be able to stare straight ahead and he will not be able to focus properly, but that is more than he can do now, yes? His tongue is simple. Tell him that if he sticks it out, you will sting it with a wasp.”
“How fiendishly simple! But do you have any wasps that I could, perhaps, borrow?”
“More than you could possibly imagine and for reasons you would not want to.”
“Wonderful.”
“Now look into the monitor. Observe him closely. I am thinking of his other problems. For instance, the torrent of stupidity he calls speech. Are you wishing him to speak in public?”
“I had hoped. I thought you might have some form of psychotropic wonder-drug that might make him smarter, more adept at communication?… If such a thing exists?”
“It does and I do but the administering process is ridiculously complicated and smells appalling. Have you not thought of punching him in the throat and playing his words from a tape player? No one will notice. We are a nation of drunks, remember.”
“Truly, Doctor, I’m rather glad I came to see you.”
“And I am glad you are glad, mysterious Sir. Not least, for my wallet. On a coarser topic, however, I am trusting our financial agreement still holds firm?”
“Indeed it does, my good man. Half now, the remainder upon return of my suitably modified moron. I have a packing case outside. You may deliver him in that. And, if all our meetings are to conclude this successfully, well, I predict many future collaborations.”
“Perhaps, then you will be revealing your identity?”
“I fear not, Doctor. For, whilst I detest lying, I share an equal if not greater revulsion to telling the truth.
“I understand, Sir. Discretion is the better part, as they are saying, yes? But one thing, if I may ask you? You are choosing a cretin to front your campaign. Would it not be better to be selecting a man who can go for long periods of time without soiling himself? There are many actors and models out there. They can look handsome without invasive surgical interventions. Some are even capable of thinking for themselves.”
“Which is the last thing I want. Show me an actor and I’ll show you a vacuum searching for a cause, someone with half an opinion and the desire to broadcast it to all and sundry. Couple that lack of understanding with the near religious zeal of the recent convert and you’ll find yourself with the type who delivers speeches about starving orphans at the opening of supermarkets; who berates schoolchildren on sportsday because they’ve never trodden on a landmine and they don’t appreciate their legs; who spreads white-liberal-guilt like typhus. Turn your back for ten seconds and there they are, telling the world God sent them to cure AIDS, the bleeding-heart scum. Give me someone happy in their own skin and dumb enough to trust I’m right and behave accordingly.”