CHAPTER ONE is here.
CHAPTER TWO is here.
CHAPTER THREE, by Mike Atkinson
As John turned from the reception desk, festooned in matching Vuitton (one in each hand, one over each shoulder – way too classy for this soulless midmarket hellhole, he smirked to himself), he heard an all too familiar voice behind him.
“Help me.”
Shit. Diana. The pneumatic psycho from Tampa was back. He felt a sense of sinking inevitability. What was it to be this time, he wondered: shag or slap? Due at the airport within the hour, he really didn’t have time for this.
Diana was looking very different this morning. Her thick dark curls had been marshalled into twin bunches, hanging like the ears on a King Charles spaniel. Her face was free of make-up, accentuating her freckles and taking a good three or four years off her age. Jeez, just how young was this bird? His eyes took in her outfit. Long white socks over bare legs, a pleated grey microskirt, a plain white blouse knotted above her navel but otherwise completely open (he lingered once again over that improbable cleavage), and to complete the ensemble, a loosely worn striped school tie. Pure early period Britney Spears. A middle-aged man’s wank fantasy made flesh.
And she was weeping. Thick tears were coursing down her face. Her baby blue eyes were fixed on him, beseechingly.
“Please John – you’ve got to help me.”
At this, Diana promptly fell to her knees and seized John’s trouser legs, gripping tightly. Behind her, a plump family in matching Mickey Mouse ears and pastel leisure shorts stood open-mouthed, digesting this bizarre tableau.
“For fuck’s sake Diana, what’s going on?” John hissed.
She slowly raised herself, and without another word, swapped one of the Vuitton cases from his left hand into hers, clasped his free hand with her right hand, and pulled him towards the main entrance. Once again, he noticed her surprising strength. Once again, he felt powerless to resist.
They stepped into the bright Florida sunshine. Blinking in the light, John paused a moment. Before he knew it, he felt his hand luggage being removed from both shoulders, and his other suitcase being yanked from his grasp. A white stretch limo had pulled up in front of him. He felt himself being shoved from behind. What the…?
The limo sped off into the Orlando rush hour traffic. Diana was seated to John’s right. Facing them, in matching dark suits and shades, two more equally familiar figures. Tweedle Fucking Dee and Tweedle Fucking Dumb. Great.
“How kind of you to give me a lift to the airport! And in such style, as well! A wee bit tacky, this whole stretch limo shtick, but a lovely gesture all the same.” Damned if he was going to show his fear.
Diana giggled skittishly, and squeezed his hand. “You English guys – you crack me up!” He bridled at her ignorance – or was it a deliberate wind-up? - but said nothing.
“John, I’m sorry we had to pull this freaky shit on you, and I’m sorry we’ve screwed up your travel plans. We’ll be at Jerry’s place in a less than an hour; then you’ll find out what all this is about. Hey – relax! Can I fix you a drink? D’you wanna watch CNN? Or would you rather pass the time…another way?”
Her left hand had been stroking his inner thigh. Now, it was scratching around for his zipper.
“Don’t worry ‘bout those guys – they’ve seen it alllll befooore…” she drawled. And then giggled again, girlishly. “C’mon, let me lick Daddy’s li’l ol’ popsicle…”
The scratching grew more frantic. John looked at the girl with a sense of mounting queasiness, bordering on disgust. This whole corny schoolgirl nymphette thing was a spectacular misjudgement on her part. He had a daughter of his own who was only just out of her teens, for Christ’s sake. He grabbed the girl’s hand and firmly moved it away. “Not in the mood, OK?”
She slunk back away from him, a wounded look on her face, and sulkily turned to look out of the window.
John surveyed her. Christ, she was young. How had she managed to get inside that club back in Tampa? And how could he have let her seduce him like that? He involuntarily shuddered at the thought. He had never been into teenage girls – even when he was a teenage boy. He had always gone for older women. Hell, he’d even married one.
Sandra was seven years his senior. She had busted him for smoking weed at a Rock Against Racism rally (Aswad were on stage at the time), and he had used all of his considerable boyish charm to get himself off – in more ways than one (oh, that sexy uniform!). She was the sensible, level-headed one, who supported him through university. He was the naughty, dissolute boy, who needed bringing under control. Oh, she would shake her head in despair at his antics sometimes, but she enjoyed living vicariously through him, and he needed her stabilising influence. Frankly, it was a sexy dynamic.
But then, gradually, imperceptibly, Sandra had morphed into a tense, humourless, resentful shrew. In John’s eyes, she was no longer the horny older woman – just a miserable middle-aged cow with a weight problem. She was also Edinburgh’s most senior female police officer – and her husband had become something of an embarrassment to her. His own “career”, if you could call it that, had steadfastly refused to take off – just a succession of shitty programming jobs in local government (the last refuge of the terminally unemployable). His boyish waywardness was not quite so lovable twenty-odd years down the line, either. “You’re still living like a bloody student!” had become her number one catchphrase.
And so the affairs had started. Discreet daytime liaisons at first, as he worked his way through the jolly ladies on the help desk (Sheena, Sue, little Annie, big Annie, and the voluptuous Valerie). But after a while, John grew less cautious, and more reckless. How often had he used that sad old “working late” cliché? And with his hitherto pathetic timekeeping record, how often would he have been believed? It was as if he had wanted Sandra to find out. Too weak to confront the real issues that were dividing them, he had gone for the soft option of slow self-destruction and eventual, inevitable discovery.
She had gone ballistic, of course. But in a way, she was only acting out the part that was required of her. There was a certain sense of relief mixed in with her fury. It was a straightforward divorce – almost amicable, once the dust had settled. They still met up from time to time, over a Saturday afternoon latte in one of the smart new city centre cafés (his choice of venue, always). He would regale her with tales of his latest scrapes (embellishing the odd detail here and there for added entertainment value), and she would listen, smile indulgently, and pretend to be shocked. Why, in a way they had almost come full circle.
John was shaken from this reverie by Diana’s tongue, which was now wedged in his right ear. Dear God, not again. He shook her off, and she whimpered self-pityingly. “I’m boooored - and you’re no fun at all!”
“Your problem, not mine, little girl. Put the cartoon channel on or something – just Leave. Me. Alone. Okay?”
He caught her hand just in time to deflect the slap. Beneath the shades and the impassive expressions, he could swear that Tweedle Fucking Dee and Tweedle Fucking Dumb were both stifling sniggers.
The limo was speeding through open countryside now, along the Number 4 highway, back towards Tampa. John recognised the road he had driven along himself, just a couple of days ago. He knew that the full journey from Orlando back to Tampa would take a good two hours or so – and yet Diana had said that they would be at Jerry’s place within half that time. Who was this Jerry, in any case? He had asked – several times – but on each occasion, Diana had merely rolled her eyes and pressed her index finger to his lips. God, but she was irritating. Every word, every action, every “look” she adopted – it all felt like a stagey screen performance. Or more accurately, like an over-eager audition for an inferior action movie. If there was indeed a “real” Diana behind the ceaseless posturing, she was keeping it well hidden.
The driver took an exit marked “Lake Alfred”. A couple of miles later, the car turned right onto a narrower track, bordered on either side with a featureless forest plantation. The track continued in a straight line for many miles. John had the sensation of being caught in a cheap animation, with the same endlessly repeated scrolling background.
Finally, the limo slowed up in front of an iron gateway on the left hand side of the road. The gates swung open, and the car proceeded along a gravel driveway. An expanse of lush green parkland opened up, bordered on all sides by the receding plantation. The driveway was on a slight uphill incline. At the top of the hill stood a white stone mansion in the colonial style, with impressive, expansive dimensions, but little architectural merit. It was clearly a recent construction, high on ostentation and low on charm.
The car came to rest in front of the house. Uniformed hands opened the doors, and the four passengers climbed out. The boot was opened, and the Vuitton four-piece lifted out by more immaculate, impassive flunkeys.
“Okey dokey, John-boyee. And in we jolly well go, my dear old chappy!”
And with this hopelessly inept attempt at aristocratic English (You sure ain’t no Gwyneth Paltrow, missy, John thought to himself), Diana led the way up the stone stairs to the front door, and into the mansion.
Once inside, John clocked the décor with a practised eye. Faux antiquity, on a grand scale. Very Architectural Digest, and utterly devoid of any character. This had clearly all been shipped in, as a job lot, by a couple of picky queens with expensive tastes and a hefty mark-up to match.
“John! Jerry Burrows. Great to meet you at last.”
A short, stout, beaming figure had stepped into the hall, hand outstretched in welcome. John took the hand and surveyed his host. Hmmm. Late forties, carefully sculpted black hair (a little too black, and a little too carefully sculpted), shades, tanned leathery skin, a thin little mouth, a fat neck leading down to a matted tangle of sweaty chest hair, only partially covered by an embroidered black Versace shirt. Paunch hemmed in by an ornately bejewelled belt. White Versace trousers, white Versace sandals. Flash trash.
“Oh, so you’ve got that new Vuitton shit as well, huh? Isn’t that shit just the best shit ever?” Burrows emitted a hearty, throaty chuckle, slapped John round the back in a show of camaraderie, and escorted him through to a large reception room. Looking behind him, John noticed that Diana had completely disappeared.
The two men settled down into a pair of voluminous cream armchairs. John noted the generous glass of vodka on the rocks, already placed on a convenient side table. Oh, this guy was slick all right. So fucking slick. Was he supposed to feel impressed, or intimidated, or both?
“So, whaddya make of that Diana chick, huh? Quite a piece of work, right?” That chuckle again. John suspected that this was some sort of trademark behavioural tic on Burrows’ part, designed to foster the illusion of matey bonhomie. It rang hollow in his ears.
John emitted a slight chuckle in response. “She’s certainly…unusual.” That’s right – proceed courteously, and cautiously. Give nothing away.
“HAH! Unusual is one word for it! The shit that chick pulls – I tell ya, it scares me sometimes. And I’m not a man who scares easily. ‘Course, half the time she’s fucked up on crystal meth. Spends too much time on that goddammed Miami party scene, if you ask me. Still, she’s only young. Gotta let her make her own mistakes, right?”
Crystal meth, huh? Serious stuff. He didn’t know much about the drug – it had yet to make its debut amongst Leith café society – but he knew something about its effects. Hyper-confidence, single-minded sexual voraciousness, aggression, mood swings. It explained a lot.
“So, is Diana your…”
“Daughter? Hell no! HAH!” Chuckle. “The kid just works for me. Very useful kid to have around, as well. Wanna know what she was doing before I met her?”
John looked impassively ahead. He didn’t much want to know, but he could make a rough guess.
“Nah, maybe we won’t go into all that. Not what you came here for, right? Oh, and sorry about the missed flight, and the following you around, and all that shit. Must think you’ve walked into some kind of creepy, crazy operation here!” Chuckle. “No, I’m just a regular businessman, same as…oh, but wait, you’re some sort of journalist, right?”
John nodded, but he was not going to be drawn. Let Burrows do the talking. “What’s your particular line of business, Mr. Burrows?” he enquired, waiting for the inevitable reaction.
“Jerry! Call me Jerry wontcha, for Chrissakes?” Chuckle. “Oh, I gotta hand in all kindsa shit. Real estate…the entertainment industry…a lotta nightclubs…but mainly Internet stuff these days. Yep, there ain’t many of us left, but you are looking at one of the original dotcom billionaires!” Chuckle. Pause. “Ah, come on! Dontcha wanna know how I did it?”
“Please – go ahead.”
“Porno sites, of course! Or “Adult Entertainment”, if you will. Kinda prefer to call it porno, myself.” Chuckle. “The first area of the Net economy to return a profit. Made my first online million back in early 96, and I haven’t looked back since. People will always pay for tits and ass. First rule of business. Well, first rule of my business, anyhow!” Chuckle. “Been expanding and expanding – now we got around 85% market share. Anything you wanna see – we got it. Except for that faaaggot shit, mind.” He drawled the word “faggot” in an exaggerated, high pitched voice. “Won’t go anywhere near that sick, perverted fag stuff. It may surprise you to learn that I’m a church-going, God-fearing man, John. Leviticus, Chapter…oh, but I’m preaching atcha now, and it ain’t even Sunday yet!” Chuckle.
Maclaren’s irritation and impatience were mounting to dangerous levels. Take it easy, now. “Jerry, you’ve said nothing about medical research, and yet those stem cells which you…”
But before he could finish his sentence, John was drowned out by an eruption of uproarious, sustained laughter.
“Oh dear, oh my…excuse me, woncha?” Jerry finally managed to splutter, as he wiped the sweat from his forehead with a crisp white cotton handkerchief.
“I don’t understand. It was you who wanted the consignment shipping over, wasn’t it? To assist with research into human…cloning...?” The Scotsman’s voice tailed off in uncertainty.
“John, John, John. For a writer, you sure suck when it comes to background research. Whassa matter, too much like hard work or something? I mean, c’mon, cryogenic fucking fountain pens, for chrissakes? Gimme a break!” Chuckle. “But hey, I like that aboutcha. You act first, you think about the consequences later, and then only if you gotta spare coupla moments. And you’ve got something else I value, as well.” Rising from his seat, Burrows paused, regarding Maclaren with an amused expression and a quizzically raised eyebrow peeping out from the top of his sunglasses.
Oh, very well then. Play the game. “And what would that be, Jerry?”
“The morals of an alleycat, boy!” More spluttering laughter.
“You got the morals of a freaking alleycat, you dirty…”
Slap on the back.
“…greedy…”
Another, harder slap.
“…horny…”
Another, still harder slap.
“…motherfucking alley cat!”
Despite the powerful sense of queasy foreboding which now threatened to engulf him, John managed a suitably complicit chuckle in return. What the hell was going on, and where was all this leading?
“Anyway, plenty of time to explain all that shit later on. C’mon now, Mister Thomas O’Malley the Freaking Alleycat. Time you met my wife.”
At the top of the grand central staircase, Burrows turned right, leading Maclaren down a wide passageway lined with framed oil paintings of eagles, otters and mountain scenes, all depicted in painstakingly realistic detail, predominantly in shades of muddy brown. Expensive crap for the terminally cultureless, John thought to himself. At the far end of the passage, Burrows opened the heavy oak panelled door, and the two men walked into a capacious bedroom, dominated by a huge four-poster which had been ruched with cornflower blue chintz to within an inch of its life. Propped up on a heap of lacy pillows, in a high-necked nightdress, bible in hand, a silver tea tray by her side, lay a pale, slight, frail looking woman in her early thirties, who greeted them with a kindly, rather distant, smile. She was still a beautiful woman, with a somewhat incongruously thick, lustrous mass of immaculately groomed shoulder length chestnut hair.
“John, I’d like you to meet my wife Kate. Kate, this is Mister John Maclaren, a business associate of mine from Bonnie Scotland.”
Jerry’s voice sounded altogether different now. Softer, better spoken, with all traces of his former brashness suddenly absent.
Kate gently extended a painfully thin arm towards John. “Mr. Maclaren, how nice of you to come up and see me. Will you be staying for dinner this evening?”
Jerry cut in before John could formulate a reply. “Mr. Maclaren has an evening flight to catch, my dear.”
“Oh, what a shame. I always make an effort to join our guests for dinner, except when I’m feeling very weak. Well, I wish you a pleasant flight, Mr. Maclaren. Returning to Scotland, or do you have further business to attend to in the States?”
Again, Jerry interrupted. “Is there anything you’d like me to have sent up, honey? A glass of juice? More tea?”
“No thank you, dear. Lunch will be ready soon. Well, I’m sure you boys have plenty to discuss, so don’t let me detain you further. Goodbye, Mr. Maclaren.”
“Goodbye, Mrs. Burrows.”
“My wife is dying, John.” The two men were descending the main staircase. “The doctors say that she’ll be lucky to have another month.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that.” They were turning left into what looked like the dining room, except for the large white screen suspended at the far end of the table. “What exactly does…”
“Leukaemia. First diagnosed just over eighteen months ago. Kate took a nasty turn for the worse about three months ago. It’s a bitter blow, John. She means the whole world to me. She’s the one good, true presence in my life. A decent church girl, as well. She doesn’t know about the porno shit, John. She would never understand. But the way I see it, sinners are always gonna be sinning. I don’t buy that whole salvation shit. Billy Graham can go fuck himself, for all I care. There will always be sinners on this earth – like you, Mr. O’Malley the Alleycat – so I might as well take their goddammed money and do something positive with it.”
“Like what?”
“Well, this is going to take some explaining, so you’d better listen carefully now. I got my boys to knock something up on PowerPoint. Hit the lights, will ya?”
John’s heart sank. He’d come all this way for a bloody PowerPoint presentation? He had endured too many of the wretched things in the old IT department. There was something about PowerPoint presentations that made him automatically shut down his mental faculties for the entire duration. He couldn’t afford to let that happen this time. Come on Jerry, try and make it interesting. Please.
The slides rolled past, as Jerry gave his talk. Again, his whole voice had changed. Jerry version 3.0 was formal, precise, businesslike, to the point. None of those endless shits and fucks and goddamms permeated his speech now. He could just as easily have been addressing a corporate seminar.
First of all, Jerry explained the essential difference between the two branches of cloning. There is therapeutic cloning, and there is reproductive cloning, and it is a common mistake to confuse the two.
Therapeutic cloning, he continued, involves adding the patient’s DNA to embryonic stem cells, and growing healthy new tissues that can then be placed back in the patient. These cells can be used to combat damaged tissues (e.g. following a heart attack, or a spinal injury such as that suffered by Christopher Reeve) or degenerative illnesses (e.g. Parkinson’s or Alzheimer’s). Stem cells can easily be acquired from the discarded embryos which are an inevitable by-product of the IVF process. Although strict legislative controls exist to restrict their usage, there is no reason to have them smuggled into the country from abroad. Neither are stem cells required to assist in reproductive cloning.
John prayed that the dark lighting was sufficient to hide his blushes, as Jerry clicked for the next slide, and talked on.
Reproductive cloning, he explained, involves taking a mother’s egg, emptying it of all her DNA, and refilling it with the DNA of the organism to be reproduced. The egg is then placed back in the mother, where it will be gestated as normal.
Therapeutic cloning, though still in its infancy, is increasingly gaining ground as a legitimate and potentially revolutionary new area of medical research and treatment. Reproductive cloning, on the other hand, raises an entirely separate set of ethical concerns. There is much talk of the dangers of raising a eugenically perfect master race of identically programmed zombies. It is the nightmare vision of Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World made alarmingly real.
“My wife is dying, Mr. Maclaren. There is nothing I can do to stop that. But there is something I can do in the longer term. For the past eighteen months, I have been funding a major research program in a secret location down in Argentina. Some of the world’s top scientists have been enlisted - at considerable expense - to work on perfecting techniques for human reproductive cloning. Their results have been spectacularly successful. Now, we are ready to make history. First of all, a sample of Kate’s DNA will be shipped to Argentina – and this is where you come in, John. Jen told me you were the man for the job – and you proved yourself admirably during our little test run this week. You’re a doer, not a thinker, and provided the price is right, you’ll do pretty much whatever it takes.”
“Hold up, Jerry. Jennifer told you about me? Jennifer Jamieson from The Capital Times?”
“The very same. Oh, don’t look so surprised, John. Jen and I go back a long way. Jen majored in American Studies, and she came over to Miami to work on her doctoral thesis. I was in business school at the time – we had mutual friends – you know how it goes. We even stepped out together a few times, but at the end of the day, she was too much of an intellectual for a simple Tampa boy like me. Helluva woman, though.”
“But – it was my decision to come to Florida, not hers!”
“Oh, come on John. Think back. She had been putting that idea in your head for weeks. Remember all those movies she rented? All those books she lent you? The pieces of work she gave you? Didn’t you notice a common theme? She’s a smart woman, and you are a – how did she put it? – an uncommonly suggestible individual.”
“But what about Stuart? The stem cells?”
“What, you mean that low-rent, drug-fucked faaag that Jen told me about? Well, she figured you’d go along with pretty much anything that hooomo suggested. Of course, he believed every thing he’d been told. Stupid, loser faaaggot.”
“And the assignment for Jennifer? Isn’t that real? Doesn’t she want my work?”
“Remind me again, John. Exactly how much did Jen offer you? A hundred thousand pounds sterling, right? For twelve pieces? For a small time local newspaper without even a regular travel section? Do you really think that’s what you’re worth? It’s like I said. Show you the money, and you’re off like an alleycat on heat. You don’t think, you don’t check your facts – you just act. It’s a great gift, John. A great gift indeed. Now, shall I continue?”
John could do nothing but mutely nod.
“As I was saying, a sample of Kate’s DNA will arrive at our labs in Argentina, where it will be inserted into the egg of our volunteer host mother. Nine months later, a beautiful new baby girl will be brought into the world. A girl called Kate. My own darling wife, brought anew into this world.”
“But – she’ll be just a baby, damn it!”
“Oh, but I’m prepared to wait, John. By the time she comes of age, I’ll still be the right side of sixty-five. Plenty of years left for me – for us. I plan on living until a ripe old age, John. And with all these new developments in therapeutic cloning to look forward to, who knows how long they’ll be able to keep me going? Hey, it’s only sixteen years we’re talking about here – maybe even just fourteen. Girls mature so fast these days.”
John’s mind was racing, as he struggled to comprehend the vile suggestion that had been laid before him. What Burrows was proposing was – obscene. It was borderline paedophilia, borderline necrophilia and borderline incest, all rolled into one, distinctly unholy package. He quelled his disgust and spoke up again.
“But there’s one thing I still don’t understand, Jerry. Why me, of all people? You don’t know me. I live on the other side of the world. Okay, so I’ve had a positive vetting from Jennifer, but still – why not pick someone closer to home?”
“A good question, John. Now we’re getting to the crux of the matter. Why you, indeed? Well, all that I can say is this. It was a specific request of the host mother that you be involved. She’s in Argentina right now, waiting for you to arrive on tonight’s flight from Orlando to Buenos Aires. Any idea who she might be? You know her well, John. Very well. In fact, based on the events of last weekend, very well indeed.” Again, that quizzically raised eyebrow.
“Megan?” So that was why she hadn’t been answering his calls. “Megan Calder?”
“Got it in one, boy. She has been fully briefed by my people, and she’s going to make a damned fine mother to Kate. A tough bargainer, mind you. Screwed me for a small fortune, has Megan. But then, she’ll be set up for life. She’ll never have to do another day’s work again. And neither will you, for that matter. Now, tell me you wouldn’t like that, huh? A lifetime of idle luxury? Look me in the eye and tell me you wouldn’t fucking love that!”
“What do you mean? I don’t under…”
“A father, boy! The kid will need a father. Can’t have her brought up by a single mom, can I? To the rest of the world, you’ll be Kate’s daddy. Megan insisted it was you. Threatened to call off the whole deal unless you were involved. Quite some thing she’s got for you there, John, as if you hadn’t realised….”
“Look, look. Jerry. This is all a bit too much to take in right now. Can I have some time to think?”
“Think? Since when have you thought before acting? This is a new side to you, boy.” That infernal chuckle again – John had hoped he’d heard the last of it. “Well – okay. There’s some lunch laid out for you by the pool. Go eat, take a stroll, think it over, and get back to me by – say three o’clock? That will still give us time to sort out all the details before driving you back to Orlando for the evening flight. Now – any more questions?”
“Yes.” Something had just struck John. “Your wife – Kate. Does she know about this?”
Jerry shook his head, slowly and solemnly. “No sir. Kate knows nothing about this. Can’t risk upsetting her when she has so little time left. Anyway, she wouldn’t understand these things. As I say, a simple church girl. She’s not quite – of this world, John. She’s led a sheltered existence – and I’ve helped see to that. Little things upset her, John. The little unkindnesses and cruelties of life. I don’t want my darling Kate to be – tainted by too much knowledge of the world. That’s just the way things have to be. Now, would you excuse me? I have things to attend to. Back here at three, right?”
After lunch, John strolled round the grounds of the Burrows estate, trying to calm himself, trying to order his thoughts, trying to be rational. So far today, he reckoned he had showed an almost superhuman level of self-control. He wasn’t at all sure how much longer he could keep it up.
All his preening assumptions had been turned on their heads in a matter of minutes. So he wasn’t the up-and-coming hot shot journalist after all. That Disneyworld article had probably headed straight for Jennifer’s bin. She probably hadn’t even read it first. Jesus, that Jennifer Jamieson. You think you know someone? And as for Megan - Christ almighty! Dark horse, or what? Just what the hell had she got herself into?
He glanced down at his expensive clothes and accessories, all bought on promises: Jennifer’s 100k sterling, and the 50 thousand bucks for those imported “stem cells”. All the longed-for trappings of that effortlessly sleek, moneyed lifestyle which he had considered no more than the natural birthright of a man with his refined sensibilities. What was it that Stuart’s crowd had dubbed him – “the gayest acting straight man on the planet”? He had rather basked in that description.
With a sudden jolt, the stark reality of his situation hit him. All of…this…it had all been funded by that wanker Burrows. Without his largesse, John had nothing. No job, no income, no status, no carte blanche to swan around the planet, doing whatever he damn well pleased.
And doing whoever he damn well pleased, for that matter. All that greedy, guilt-free, “recreational” sex that he’d been lapping up recently - more often than not fuelled by liberal snorts of “recreational” white powder. What had he turned into? Typical bloody Mid-life Crisis Man, that’s who. A classic, text-book case. A walking bloody cliché. The oldest swinger in town. Had there been anyone else even remotely approaching his age in the Amphitheater the other night?
He wasn’t accustomed to wasting time speculating on what others thought of him. Normally, he had too much over-weaning self-belief for that. Now though, strange doubts were creeping in. Was he the Original Party Boy of his fond imaginings, or just a sad sack who could be relied upon to get the drinks in and the charlie out? A sad sack with “the morals of an alleycat”? Jerry’s jovial assessment had stung him, badly. After all, it wasn’t so much Jerry’s quick-fire judgement – formed after only the briefest of meetings – as Jennifer’s considered opinion, formed after careful, sustained observation.
And what did Megan (Megan!) think of him? That he was the sort of guy who would willingly collude in the rearing of a cloned embryo inside a brood mare (for that’s all she is, he thought bitterly), and in the raising of a little girl whose sexual future had already been mapped out for her, offering her no choice in life other than to submit to the will of a randy old pornographer?
Yes – Jennifer and Megan really did think that he was that sort of guy. Prepared to do anything, so long as it allowed him to lead his flashy, label-obsessed lifestyle. It was quite some judgement. Well, maybe he had been that sort of guy lately, but this was his wake-up call. Burrows could go and find some other sucker to do his dirty, dirty work for him. He, John Maclaren, would have no further part in this.
With that thought, John turned on his heels and began striding purposefully back to the mansion. When suddenly, as if from nowhere, a familiar figure appeared in front of him.
This time, Diana had done nothing to emphasise her natural assets. Quite the opposite, in fact. In a shapeless, baggy sweatshirt, nondescript tracksuit bottoms, and scuffed trainers, she looked like any other ordinary teenager. And she was crying again.
“Help me. Please John – I mean it this time. Help me. You don’t know…”
The sound of a door opening in the main house sent Diana scampering back into the bushes like a startled fawn. John stood there a moment longer, trying to work out what game this girl was playing now. She was unfathomable. He thought back over what she had said to him that night in the Amphitheater, trying to piece her character together.
You’re not American, so you’re safe in most countries… Paranoid.
…and you’d have the backing of one of the largest organisations in the world... Delusional.
…and you could have me. Needy.
The kid was fucked up good and proper; that was the only thing he could say about her with any certainty. Everything about her screamed: Avoid! And yet…
Ah, sod that. There was still the little matter of the rest of his life to consider. John strode on towards the house, where Burrows was awaiting his decision.
“So, that’s your final word on the matter, is it?”
Maclaren nodded. Burrows seemed to be taking this remarkably well.
“Nothing else I can say that could possibly sway you?”
Maclaren shook his head.
“Well, would you just allow me one last pitch anyway? Hit the lights again, would you?”
Once John was seated, Jerry continued.
“Now then. You remember I mentioned one of my side interests? A chain of nightclubs? Well, one of those nightclubs just happens to be the famous Amphitheater, an hour’s drive down the road in good old Tampa. Had a swell time there the other night, didn’t you?”
A click of the mouse, and a series of full-screen images flashed in front of John’s startled eyes. Lurid, graphic, close-up images of two people in the throes of passion. Two unmistakeable people.
“Ever wonder just how a young kid like Diana could gain admittance to a club like the Amphitheater? It’s not as if even the dumbest doorman could ever mistake her for 21, right?” Chuckle. Click.
Next, an Outlook screen. A draft e-mail. Title: John’s Holiday Snaps. Recipients: Jerry slowly added to the list from his laptop’s address book. Victoria, his former girlfriend. Sandra, his ex-wife. About half a dozen of his old workmates. His old boss. The editor of The Capital Times. Daisy and Daniel, his kids. His parents, at the joint e-mail address he had sorted out for them just before leaving Scotland – a parting gift, to help them stay in touch.
“There’s a neat little MPEG movie clip, as well,” Jerry added. “The full audio-visual experience. Hot stuff, as well. First time a guy like me has ever given away top-grade meat-beating action like this, that’s for sure!” Chuckle. “As a businessman, it breaks my heart!” Chuckle. “All I have to do is hit the Send button. Sure you won’t change your mind?”
“You blackmailing BASTARD!” John was seething with rage. “FUCK YOU!” He rose from his chair and lurched over towards the squat, sweaty figure at the other end of the long table. Immediately, doors swung open, as expensively liveried heavies poured into the room from all sides.
“Sure you won’t change your mind?”
“Ach – go on then, Burrows. Do your worst. So, I have sex from time to time. Big fucking deal. I hardly think it will surprise anyone. Go on, hit Send, you bastard!”
Burrows sighed theatrically, and clicked on the button. Maclaren lurched back to his chair, panting but quietly triumphant.
“I’m not going to Argentina, Jerry. Is that quite clear? And can I please go now?”
“In a moment John, in a moment. My, my. We underestimated you, didn’t we? Okay. It would seem – and believe me, I really didn’t want to do this – it would seem that I just have one last chance to persuade you.” Pause. Click.
On the screen, a grainy feed from a webcam. Grainy, but still of high enough resolution for John to recognise, instantly, the girl tied up on the wooden chair in the middle of the hotel bedroom.
“Daisy! What the fuck are you doing with my daughter, you SICK…”
“Relax, John. We’ve done nothing to her at all. At least, not yet. The live feed isn’t scheduled to start for another couple of hours yet. One of our top revenue sites, this one. A premium rate, but we do offer a premium service to our registered subscribers. It’s a little…specialist, I grant you, but our customer satisfaction surveys show….”
“YOU EVIL, TWISTED BASTARD! You’ll do anything to get your way, won’t you? My own daughter! And you say you’re a religious man…”
“She’s a sinner, John. Do you know what she’s been getting up to with that holiday company, out there in sunny Spain? That holiday company for “lively young party people”? You know as well as I do what they trade on. Same thing as me. Sex, sex, sex. It’s a tits and ass world, John. So wake up and smell the coffee. She’s not your special little girl any more. She’s a sinner, just like all the rest of those bitches out there. Told you I didn’t believe in that salvation shit. So how about a little of that retribution shit instead, huh? Or – you could just – get – on – that – fucking – plane. It’s a simple enough choice. So what’s it to be?”
CHAPTER TWO is here.
CHAPTER THREE, by Mike Atkinson
As John turned from the reception desk, festooned in matching Vuitton (one in each hand, one over each shoulder – way too classy for this soulless midmarket hellhole, he smirked to himself), he heard an all too familiar voice behind him.
“Help me.”
Shit. Diana. The pneumatic psycho from Tampa was back. He felt a sense of sinking inevitability. What was it to be this time, he wondered: shag or slap? Due at the airport within the hour, he really didn’t have time for this.
Diana was looking very different this morning. Her thick dark curls had been marshalled into twin bunches, hanging like the ears on a King Charles spaniel. Her face was free of make-up, accentuating her freckles and taking a good three or four years off her age. Jeez, just how young was this bird? His eyes took in her outfit. Long white socks over bare legs, a pleated grey microskirt, a plain white blouse knotted above her navel but otherwise completely open (he lingered once again over that improbable cleavage), and to complete the ensemble, a loosely worn striped school tie. Pure early period Britney Spears. A middle-aged man’s wank fantasy made flesh.
And she was weeping. Thick tears were coursing down her face. Her baby blue eyes were fixed on him, beseechingly.
“Please John – you’ve got to help me.”
At this, Diana promptly fell to her knees and seized John’s trouser legs, gripping tightly. Behind her, a plump family in matching Mickey Mouse ears and pastel leisure shorts stood open-mouthed, digesting this bizarre tableau.
“For fuck’s sake Diana, what’s going on?” John hissed.
She slowly raised herself, and without another word, swapped one of the Vuitton cases from his left hand into hers, clasped his free hand with her right hand, and pulled him towards the main entrance. Once again, he noticed her surprising strength. Once again, he felt powerless to resist.
They stepped into the bright Florida sunshine. Blinking in the light, John paused a moment. Before he knew it, he felt his hand luggage being removed from both shoulders, and his other suitcase being yanked from his grasp. A white stretch limo had pulled up in front of him. He felt himself being shoved from behind. What the…?
The limo sped off into the Orlando rush hour traffic. Diana was seated to John’s right. Facing them, in matching dark suits and shades, two more equally familiar figures. Tweedle Fucking Dee and Tweedle Fucking Dumb. Great.
“How kind of you to give me a lift to the airport! And in such style, as well! A wee bit tacky, this whole stretch limo shtick, but a lovely gesture all the same.” Damned if he was going to show his fear.
Diana giggled skittishly, and squeezed his hand. “You English guys – you crack me up!” He bridled at her ignorance – or was it a deliberate wind-up? - but said nothing.
“John, I’m sorry we had to pull this freaky shit on you, and I’m sorry we’ve screwed up your travel plans. We’ll be at Jerry’s place in a less than an hour; then you’ll find out what all this is about. Hey – relax! Can I fix you a drink? D’you wanna watch CNN? Or would you rather pass the time…another way?”
Her left hand had been stroking his inner thigh. Now, it was scratching around for his zipper.
“Don’t worry ‘bout those guys – they’ve seen it alllll befooore…” she drawled. And then giggled again, girlishly. “C’mon, let me lick Daddy’s li’l ol’ popsicle…”
The scratching grew more frantic. John looked at the girl with a sense of mounting queasiness, bordering on disgust. This whole corny schoolgirl nymphette thing was a spectacular misjudgement on her part. He had a daughter of his own who was only just out of her teens, for Christ’s sake. He grabbed the girl’s hand and firmly moved it away. “Not in the mood, OK?”
She slunk back away from him, a wounded look on her face, and sulkily turned to look out of the window.
John surveyed her. Christ, she was young. How had she managed to get inside that club back in Tampa? And how could he have let her seduce him like that? He involuntarily shuddered at the thought. He had never been into teenage girls – even when he was a teenage boy. He had always gone for older women. Hell, he’d even married one.
Sandra was seven years his senior. She had busted him for smoking weed at a Rock Against Racism rally (Aswad were on stage at the time), and he had used all of his considerable boyish charm to get himself off – in more ways than one (oh, that sexy uniform!). She was the sensible, level-headed one, who supported him through university. He was the naughty, dissolute boy, who needed bringing under control. Oh, she would shake her head in despair at his antics sometimes, but she enjoyed living vicariously through him, and he needed her stabilising influence. Frankly, it was a sexy dynamic.
But then, gradually, imperceptibly, Sandra had morphed into a tense, humourless, resentful shrew. In John’s eyes, she was no longer the horny older woman – just a miserable middle-aged cow with a weight problem. She was also Edinburgh’s most senior female police officer – and her husband had become something of an embarrassment to her. His own “career”, if you could call it that, had steadfastly refused to take off – just a succession of shitty programming jobs in local government (the last refuge of the terminally unemployable). His boyish waywardness was not quite so lovable twenty-odd years down the line, either. “You’re still living like a bloody student!” had become her number one catchphrase.
And so the affairs had started. Discreet daytime liaisons at first, as he worked his way through the jolly ladies on the help desk (Sheena, Sue, little Annie, big Annie, and the voluptuous Valerie). But after a while, John grew less cautious, and more reckless. How often had he used that sad old “working late” cliché? And with his hitherto pathetic timekeeping record, how often would he have been believed? It was as if he had wanted Sandra to find out. Too weak to confront the real issues that were dividing them, he had gone for the soft option of slow self-destruction and eventual, inevitable discovery.
She had gone ballistic, of course. But in a way, she was only acting out the part that was required of her. There was a certain sense of relief mixed in with her fury. It was a straightforward divorce – almost amicable, once the dust had settled. They still met up from time to time, over a Saturday afternoon latte in one of the smart new city centre cafés (his choice of venue, always). He would regale her with tales of his latest scrapes (embellishing the odd detail here and there for added entertainment value), and she would listen, smile indulgently, and pretend to be shocked. Why, in a way they had almost come full circle.
John was shaken from this reverie by Diana’s tongue, which was now wedged in his right ear. Dear God, not again. He shook her off, and she whimpered self-pityingly. “I’m boooored - and you’re no fun at all!”
“Your problem, not mine, little girl. Put the cartoon channel on or something – just Leave. Me. Alone. Okay?”
He caught her hand just in time to deflect the slap. Beneath the shades and the impassive expressions, he could swear that Tweedle Fucking Dee and Tweedle Fucking Dumb were both stifling sniggers.
The limo was speeding through open countryside now, along the Number 4 highway, back towards Tampa. John recognised the road he had driven along himself, just a couple of days ago. He knew that the full journey from Orlando back to Tampa would take a good two hours or so – and yet Diana had said that they would be at Jerry’s place within half that time. Who was this Jerry, in any case? He had asked – several times – but on each occasion, Diana had merely rolled her eyes and pressed her index finger to his lips. God, but she was irritating. Every word, every action, every “look” she adopted – it all felt like a stagey screen performance. Or more accurately, like an over-eager audition for an inferior action movie. If there was indeed a “real” Diana behind the ceaseless posturing, she was keeping it well hidden.
The driver took an exit marked “Lake Alfred”. A couple of miles later, the car turned right onto a narrower track, bordered on either side with a featureless forest plantation. The track continued in a straight line for many miles. John had the sensation of being caught in a cheap animation, with the same endlessly repeated scrolling background.
Finally, the limo slowed up in front of an iron gateway on the left hand side of the road. The gates swung open, and the car proceeded along a gravel driveway. An expanse of lush green parkland opened up, bordered on all sides by the receding plantation. The driveway was on a slight uphill incline. At the top of the hill stood a white stone mansion in the colonial style, with impressive, expansive dimensions, but little architectural merit. It was clearly a recent construction, high on ostentation and low on charm.
The car came to rest in front of the house. Uniformed hands opened the doors, and the four passengers climbed out. The boot was opened, and the Vuitton four-piece lifted out by more immaculate, impassive flunkeys.
“Okey dokey, John-boyee. And in we jolly well go, my dear old chappy!”
And with this hopelessly inept attempt at aristocratic English (You sure ain’t no Gwyneth Paltrow, missy, John thought to himself), Diana led the way up the stone stairs to the front door, and into the mansion.
Once inside, John clocked the décor with a practised eye. Faux antiquity, on a grand scale. Very Architectural Digest, and utterly devoid of any character. This had clearly all been shipped in, as a job lot, by a couple of picky queens with expensive tastes and a hefty mark-up to match.
“John! Jerry Burrows. Great to meet you at last.”
A short, stout, beaming figure had stepped into the hall, hand outstretched in welcome. John took the hand and surveyed his host. Hmmm. Late forties, carefully sculpted black hair (a little too black, and a little too carefully sculpted), shades, tanned leathery skin, a thin little mouth, a fat neck leading down to a matted tangle of sweaty chest hair, only partially covered by an embroidered black Versace shirt. Paunch hemmed in by an ornately bejewelled belt. White Versace trousers, white Versace sandals. Flash trash.
“Oh, so you’ve got that new Vuitton shit as well, huh? Isn’t that shit just the best shit ever?” Burrows emitted a hearty, throaty chuckle, slapped John round the back in a show of camaraderie, and escorted him through to a large reception room. Looking behind him, John noticed that Diana had completely disappeared.
The two men settled down into a pair of voluminous cream armchairs. John noted the generous glass of vodka on the rocks, already placed on a convenient side table. Oh, this guy was slick all right. So fucking slick. Was he supposed to feel impressed, or intimidated, or both?
“So, whaddya make of that Diana chick, huh? Quite a piece of work, right?” That chuckle again. John suspected that this was some sort of trademark behavioural tic on Burrows’ part, designed to foster the illusion of matey bonhomie. It rang hollow in his ears.
John emitted a slight chuckle in response. “She’s certainly…unusual.” That’s right – proceed courteously, and cautiously. Give nothing away.
“HAH! Unusual is one word for it! The shit that chick pulls – I tell ya, it scares me sometimes. And I’m not a man who scares easily. ‘Course, half the time she’s fucked up on crystal meth. Spends too much time on that goddammed Miami party scene, if you ask me. Still, she’s only young. Gotta let her make her own mistakes, right?”
Crystal meth, huh? Serious stuff. He didn’t know much about the drug – it had yet to make its debut amongst Leith café society – but he knew something about its effects. Hyper-confidence, single-minded sexual voraciousness, aggression, mood swings. It explained a lot.
“So, is Diana your…”
“Daughter? Hell no! HAH!” Chuckle. “The kid just works for me. Very useful kid to have around, as well. Wanna know what she was doing before I met her?”
John looked impassively ahead. He didn’t much want to know, but he could make a rough guess.
“Nah, maybe we won’t go into all that. Not what you came here for, right? Oh, and sorry about the missed flight, and the following you around, and all that shit. Must think you’ve walked into some kind of creepy, crazy operation here!” Chuckle. “No, I’m just a regular businessman, same as…oh, but wait, you’re some sort of journalist, right?”
John nodded, but he was not going to be drawn. Let Burrows do the talking. “What’s your particular line of business, Mr. Burrows?” he enquired, waiting for the inevitable reaction.
“Jerry! Call me Jerry wontcha, for Chrissakes?” Chuckle. “Oh, I gotta hand in all kindsa shit. Real estate…the entertainment industry…a lotta nightclubs…but mainly Internet stuff these days. Yep, there ain’t many of us left, but you are looking at one of the original dotcom billionaires!” Chuckle. Pause. “Ah, come on! Dontcha wanna know how I did it?”
“Please – go ahead.”
“Porno sites, of course! Or “Adult Entertainment”, if you will. Kinda prefer to call it porno, myself.” Chuckle. “The first area of the Net economy to return a profit. Made my first online million back in early 96, and I haven’t looked back since. People will always pay for tits and ass. First rule of business. Well, first rule of my business, anyhow!” Chuckle. “Been expanding and expanding – now we got around 85% market share. Anything you wanna see – we got it. Except for that faaaggot shit, mind.” He drawled the word “faggot” in an exaggerated, high pitched voice. “Won’t go anywhere near that sick, perverted fag stuff. It may surprise you to learn that I’m a church-going, God-fearing man, John. Leviticus, Chapter…oh, but I’m preaching atcha now, and it ain’t even Sunday yet!” Chuckle.
Maclaren’s irritation and impatience were mounting to dangerous levels. Take it easy, now. “Jerry, you’ve said nothing about medical research, and yet those stem cells which you…”
But before he could finish his sentence, John was drowned out by an eruption of uproarious, sustained laughter.
“Oh dear, oh my…excuse me, woncha?” Jerry finally managed to splutter, as he wiped the sweat from his forehead with a crisp white cotton handkerchief.
“I don’t understand. It was you who wanted the consignment shipping over, wasn’t it? To assist with research into human…cloning...?” The Scotsman’s voice tailed off in uncertainty.
“John, John, John. For a writer, you sure suck when it comes to background research. Whassa matter, too much like hard work or something? I mean, c’mon, cryogenic fucking fountain pens, for chrissakes? Gimme a break!” Chuckle. “But hey, I like that aboutcha. You act first, you think about the consequences later, and then only if you gotta spare coupla moments. And you’ve got something else I value, as well.” Rising from his seat, Burrows paused, regarding Maclaren with an amused expression and a quizzically raised eyebrow peeping out from the top of his sunglasses.
Oh, very well then. Play the game. “And what would that be, Jerry?”
“The morals of an alleycat, boy!” More spluttering laughter.
“You got the morals of a freaking alleycat, you dirty…”
Slap on the back.
“…greedy…”
Another, harder slap.
“…horny…”
Another, still harder slap.
“…motherfucking alley cat!”
Despite the powerful sense of queasy foreboding which now threatened to engulf him, John managed a suitably complicit chuckle in return. What the hell was going on, and where was all this leading?
“Anyway, plenty of time to explain all that shit later on. C’mon now, Mister Thomas O’Malley the Freaking Alleycat. Time you met my wife.”
At the top of the grand central staircase, Burrows turned right, leading Maclaren down a wide passageway lined with framed oil paintings of eagles, otters and mountain scenes, all depicted in painstakingly realistic detail, predominantly in shades of muddy brown. Expensive crap for the terminally cultureless, John thought to himself. At the far end of the passage, Burrows opened the heavy oak panelled door, and the two men walked into a capacious bedroom, dominated by a huge four-poster which had been ruched with cornflower blue chintz to within an inch of its life. Propped up on a heap of lacy pillows, in a high-necked nightdress, bible in hand, a silver tea tray by her side, lay a pale, slight, frail looking woman in her early thirties, who greeted them with a kindly, rather distant, smile. She was still a beautiful woman, with a somewhat incongruously thick, lustrous mass of immaculately groomed shoulder length chestnut hair.
“John, I’d like you to meet my wife Kate. Kate, this is Mister John Maclaren, a business associate of mine from Bonnie Scotland.”
Jerry’s voice sounded altogether different now. Softer, better spoken, with all traces of his former brashness suddenly absent.
Kate gently extended a painfully thin arm towards John. “Mr. Maclaren, how nice of you to come up and see me. Will you be staying for dinner this evening?”
Jerry cut in before John could formulate a reply. “Mr. Maclaren has an evening flight to catch, my dear.”
“Oh, what a shame. I always make an effort to join our guests for dinner, except when I’m feeling very weak. Well, I wish you a pleasant flight, Mr. Maclaren. Returning to Scotland, or do you have further business to attend to in the States?”
Again, Jerry interrupted. “Is there anything you’d like me to have sent up, honey? A glass of juice? More tea?”
“No thank you, dear. Lunch will be ready soon. Well, I’m sure you boys have plenty to discuss, so don’t let me detain you further. Goodbye, Mr. Maclaren.”
“Goodbye, Mrs. Burrows.”
“My wife is dying, John.” The two men were descending the main staircase. “The doctors say that she’ll be lucky to have another month.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that.” They were turning left into what looked like the dining room, except for the large white screen suspended at the far end of the table. “What exactly does…”
“Leukaemia. First diagnosed just over eighteen months ago. Kate took a nasty turn for the worse about three months ago. It’s a bitter blow, John. She means the whole world to me. She’s the one good, true presence in my life. A decent church girl, as well. She doesn’t know about the porno shit, John. She would never understand. But the way I see it, sinners are always gonna be sinning. I don’t buy that whole salvation shit. Billy Graham can go fuck himself, for all I care. There will always be sinners on this earth – like you, Mr. O’Malley the Alleycat – so I might as well take their goddammed money and do something positive with it.”
“Like what?”
“Well, this is going to take some explaining, so you’d better listen carefully now. I got my boys to knock something up on PowerPoint. Hit the lights, will ya?”
John’s heart sank. He’d come all this way for a bloody PowerPoint presentation? He had endured too many of the wretched things in the old IT department. There was something about PowerPoint presentations that made him automatically shut down his mental faculties for the entire duration. He couldn’t afford to let that happen this time. Come on Jerry, try and make it interesting. Please.
The slides rolled past, as Jerry gave his talk. Again, his whole voice had changed. Jerry version 3.0 was formal, precise, businesslike, to the point. None of those endless shits and fucks and goddamms permeated his speech now. He could just as easily have been addressing a corporate seminar.
First of all, Jerry explained the essential difference between the two branches of cloning. There is therapeutic cloning, and there is reproductive cloning, and it is a common mistake to confuse the two.
Therapeutic cloning, he continued, involves adding the patient’s DNA to embryonic stem cells, and growing healthy new tissues that can then be placed back in the patient. These cells can be used to combat damaged tissues (e.g. following a heart attack, or a spinal injury such as that suffered by Christopher Reeve) or degenerative illnesses (e.g. Parkinson’s or Alzheimer’s). Stem cells can easily be acquired from the discarded embryos which are an inevitable by-product of the IVF process. Although strict legislative controls exist to restrict their usage, there is no reason to have them smuggled into the country from abroad. Neither are stem cells required to assist in reproductive cloning.
John prayed that the dark lighting was sufficient to hide his blushes, as Jerry clicked for the next slide, and talked on.
Reproductive cloning, he explained, involves taking a mother’s egg, emptying it of all her DNA, and refilling it with the DNA of the organism to be reproduced. The egg is then placed back in the mother, where it will be gestated as normal.
Therapeutic cloning, though still in its infancy, is increasingly gaining ground as a legitimate and potentially revolutionary new area of medical research and treatment. Reproductive cloning, on the other hand, raises an entirely separate set of ethical concerns. There is much talk of the dangers of raising a eugenically perfect master race of identically programmed zombies. It is the nightmare vision of Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World made alarmingly real.
“My wife is dying, Mr. Maclaren. There is nothing I can do to stop that. But there is something I can do in the longer term. For the past eighteen months, I have been funding a major research program in a secret location down in Argentina. Some of the world’s top scientists have been enlisted - at considerable expense - to work on perfecting techniques for human reproductive cloning. Their results have been spectacularly successful. Now, we are ready to make history. First of all, a sample of Kate’s DNA will be shipped to Argentina – and this is where you come in, John. Jen told me you were the man for the job – and you proved yourself admirably during our little test run this week. You’re a doer, not a thinker, and provided the price is right, you’ll do pretty much whatever it takes.”
“Hold up, Jerry. Jennifer told you about me? Jennifer Jamieson from The Capital Times?”
“The very same. Oh, don’t look so surprised, John. Jen and I go back a long way. Jen majored in American Studies, and she came over to Miami to work on her doctoral thesis. I was in business school at the time – we had mutual friends – you know how it goes. We even stepped out together a few times, but at the end of the day, she was too much of an intellectual for a simple Tampa boy like me. Helluva woman, though.”
“But – it was my decision to come to Florida, not hers!”
“Oh, come on John. Think back. She had been putting that idea in your head for weeks. Remember all those movies she rented? All those books she lent you? The pieces of work she gave you? Didn’t you notice a common theme? She’s a smart woman, and you are a – how did she put it? – an uncommonly suggestible individual.”
“But what about Stuart? The stem cells?”
“What, you mean that low-rent, drug-fucked faaag that Jen told me about? Well, she figured you’d go along with pretty much anything that hooomo suggested. Of course, he believed every thing he’d been told. Stupid, loser faaaggot.”
“And the assignment for Jennifer? Isn’t that real? Doesn’t she want my work?”
“Remind me again, John. Exactly how much did Jen offer you? A hundred thousand pounds sterling, right? For twelve pieces? For a small time local newspaper without even a regular travel section? Do you really think that’s what you’re worth? It’s like I said. Show you the money, and you’re off like an alleycat on heat. You don’t think, you don’t check your facts – you just act. It’s a great gift, John. A great gift indeed. Now, shall I continue?”
John could do nothing but mutely nod.
“As I was saying, a sample of Kate’s DNA will arrive at our labs in Argentina, where it will be inserted into the egg of our volunteer host mother. Nine months later, a beautiful new baby girl will be brought into the world. A girl called Kate. My own darling wife, brought anew into this world.”
“But – she’ll be just a baby, damn it!”
“Oh, but I’m prepared to wait, John. By the time she comes of age, I’ll still be the right side of sixty-five. Plenty of years left for me – for us. I plan on living until a ripe old age, John. And with all these new developments in therapeutic cloning to look forward to, who knows how long they’ll be able to keep me going? Hey, it’s only sixteen years we’re talking about here – maybe even just fourteen. Girls mature so fast these days.”
John’s mind was racing, as he struggled to comprehend the vile suggestion that had been laid before him. What Burrows was proposing was – obscene. It was borderline paedophilia, borderline necrophilia and borderline incest, all rolled into one, distinctly unholy package. He quelled his disgust and spoke up again.
“But there’s one thing I still don’t understand, Jerry. Why me, of all people? You don’t know me. I live on the other side of the world. Okay, so I’ve had a positive vetting from Jennifer, but still – why not pick someone closer to home?”
“A good question, John. Now we’re getting to the crux of the matter. Why you, indeed? Well, all that I can say is this. It was a specific request of the host mother that you be involved. She’s in Argentina right now, waiting for you to arrive on tonight’s flight from Orlando to Buenos Aires. Any idea who she might be? You know her well, John. Very well. In fact, based on the events of last weekend, very well indeed.” Again, that quizzically raised eyebrow.
“Megan?” So that was why she hadn’t been answering his calls. “Megan Calder?”
“Got it in one, boy. She has been fully briefed by my people, and she’s going to make a damned fine mother to Kate. A tough bargainer, mind you. Screwed me for a small fortune, has Megan. But then, she’ll be set up for life. She’ll never have to do another day’s work again. And neither will you, for that matter. Now, tell me you wouldn’t like that, huh? A lifetime of idle luxury? Look me in the eye and tell me you wouldn’t fucking love that!”
“What do you mean? I don’t under…”
“A father, boy! The kid will need a father. Can’t have her brought up by a single mom, can I? To the rest of the world, you’ll be Kate’s daddy. Megan insisted it was you. Threatened to call off the whole deal unless you were involved. Quite some thing she’s got for you there, John, as if you hadn’t realised….”
“Look, look. Jerry. This is all a bit too much to take in right now. Can I have some time to think?”
“Think? Since when have you thought before acting? This is a new side to you, boy.” That infernal chuckle again – John had hoped he’d heard the last of it. “Well – okay. There’s some lunch laid out for you by the pool. Go eat, take a stroll, think it over, and get back to me by – say three o’clock? That will still give us time to sort out all the details before driving you back to Orlando for the evening flight. Now – any more questions?”
“Yes.” Something had just struck John. “Your wife – Kate. Does she know about this?”
Jerry shook his head, slowly and solemnly. “No sir. Kate knows nothing about this. Can’t risk upsetting her when she has so little time left. Anyway, she wouldn’t understand these things. As I say, a simple church girl. She’s not quite – of this world, John. She’s led a sheltered existence – and I’ve helped see to that. Little things upset her, John. The little unkindnesses and cruelties of life. I don’t want my darling Kate to be – tainted by too much knowledge of the world. That’s just the way things have to be. Now, would you excuse me? I have things to attend to. Back here at three, right?”
After lunch, John strolled round the grounds of the Burrows estate, trying to calm himself, trying to order his thoughts, trying to be rational. So far today, he reckoned he had showed an almost superhuman level of self-control. He wasn’t at all sure how much longer he could keep it up.
All his preening assumptions had been turned on their heads in a matter of minutes. So he wasn’t the up-and-coming hot shot journalist after all. That Disneyworld article had probably headed straight for Jennifer’s bin. She probably hadn’t even read it first. Jesus, that Jennifer Jamieson. You think you know someone? And as for Megan - Christ almighty! Dark horse, or what? Just what the hell had she got herself into?
He glanced down at his expensive clothes and accessories, all bought on promises: Jennifer’s 100k sterling, and the 50 thousand bucks for those imported “stem cells”. All the longed-for trappings of that effortlessly sleek, moneyed lifestyle which he had considered no more than the natural birthright of a man with his refined sensibilities. What was it that Stuart’s crowd had dubbed him – “the gayest acting straight man on the planet”? He had rather basked in that description.
With a sudden jolt, the stark reality of his situation hit him. All of…this…it had all been funded by that wanker Burrows. Without his largesse, John had nothing. No job, no income, no status, no carte blanche to swan around the planet, doing whatever he damn well pleased.
And doing whoever he damn well pleased, for that matter. All that greedy, guilt-free, “recreational” sex that he’d been lapping up recently - more often than not fuelled by liberal snorts of “recreational” white powder. What had he turned into? Typical bloody Mid-life Crisis Man, that’s who. A classic, text-book case. A walking bloody cliché. The oldest swinger in town. Had there been anyone else even remotely approaching his age in the Amphitheater the other night?
He wasn’t accustomed to wasting time speculating on what others thought of him. Normally, he had too much over-weaning self-belief for that. Now though, strange doubts were creeping in. Was he the Original Party Boy of his fond imaginings, or just a sad sack who could be relied upon to get the drinks in and the charlie out? A sad sack with “the morals of an alleycat”? Jerry’s jovial assessment had stung him, badly. After all, it wasn’t so much Jerry’s quick-fire judgement – formed after only the briefest of meetings – as Jennifer’s considered opinion, formed after careful, sustained observation.
And what did Megan (Megan!) think of him? That he was the sort of guy who would willingly collude in the rearing of a cloned embryo inside a brood mare (for that’s all she is, he thought bitterly), and in the raising of a little girl whose sexual future had already been mapped out for her, offering her no choice in life other than to submit to the will of a randy old pornographer?
Yes – Jennifer and Megan really did think that he was that sort of guy. Prepared to do anything, so long as it allowed him to lead his flashy, label-obsessed lifestyle. It was quite some judgement. Well, maybe he had been that sort of guy lately, but this was his wake-up call. Burrows could go and find some other sucker to do his dirty, dirty work for him. He, John Maclaren, would have no further part in this.
With that thought, John turned on his heels and began striding purposefully back to the mansion. When suddenly, as if from nowhere, a familiar figure appeared in front of him.
This time, Diana had done nothing to emphasise her natural assets. Quite the opposite, in fact. In a shapeless, baggy sweatshirt, nondescript tracksuit bottoms, and scuffed trainers, she looked like any other ordinary teenager. And she was crying again.
“Help me. Please John – I mean it this time. Help me. You don’t know…”
The sound of a door opening in the main house sent Diana scampering back into the bushes like a startled fawn. John stood there a moment longer, trying to work out what game this girl was playing now. She was unfathomable. He thought back over what she had said to him that night in the Amphitheater, trying to piece her character together.
You’re not American, so you’re safe in most countries… Paranoid.
…and you’d have the backing of one of the largest organisations in the world... Delusional.
…and you could have me. Needy.
The kid was fucked up good and proper; that was the only thing he could say about her with any certainty. Everything about her screamed: Avoid! And yet…
Ah, sod that. There was still the little matter of the rest of his life to consider. John strode on towards the house, where Burrows was awaiting his decision.
“So, that’s your final word on the matter, is it?”
Maclaren nodded. Burrows seemed to be taking this remarkably well.
“Nothing else I can say that could possibly sway you?”
Maclaren shook his head.
“Well, would you just allow me one last pitch anyway? Hit the lights again, would you?”
Once John was seated, Jerry continued.
“Now then. You remember I mentioned one of my side interests? A chain of nightclubs? Well, one of those nightclubs just happens to be the famous Amphitheater, an hour’s drive down the road in good old Tampa. Had a swell time there the other night, didn’t you?”
A click of the mouse, and a series of full-screen images flashed in front of John’s startled eyes. Lurid, graphic, close-up images of two people in the throes of passion. Two unmistakeable people.
“Ever wonder just how a young kid like Diana could gain admittance to a club like the Amphitheater? It’s not as if even the dumbest doorman could ever mistake her for 21, right?” Chuckle. Click.
Next, an Outlook screen. A draft e-mail. Title: John’s Holiday Snaps. Recipients: Jerry slowly added to the list from his laptop’s address book. Victoria, his former girlfriend. Sandra, his ex-wife. About half a dozen of his old workmates. His old boss. The editor of The Capital Times. Daisy and Daniel, his kids. His parents, at the joint e-mail address he had sorted out for them just before leaving Scotland – a parting gift, to help them stay in touch.
“There’s a neat little MPEG movie clip, as well,” Jerry added. “The full audio-visual experience. Hot stuff, as well. First time a guy like me has ever given away top-grade meat-beating action like this, that’s for sure!” Chuckle. “As a businessman, it breaks my heart!” Chuckle. “All I have to do is hit the Send button. Sure you won’t change your mind?”
“You blackmailing BASTARD!” John was seething with rage. “FUCK YOU!” He rose from his chair and lurched over towards the squat, sweaty figure at the other end of the long table. Immediately, doors swung open, as expensively liveried heavies poured into the room from all sides.
“Sure you won’t change your mind?”
“Ach – go on then, Burrows. Do your worst. So, I have sex from time to time. Big fucking deal. I hardly think it will surprise anyone. Go on, hit Send, you bastard!”
Burrows sighed theatrically, and clicked on the button. Maclaren lurched back to his chair, panting but quietly triumphant.
“I’m not going to Argentina, Jerry. Is that quite clear? And can I please go now?”
“In a moment John, in a moment. My, my. We underestimated you, didn’t we? Okay. It would seem – and believe me, I really didn’t want to do this – it would seem that I just have one last chance to persuade you.” Pause. Click.
On the screen, a grainy feed from a webcam. Grainy, but still of high enough resolution for John to recognise, instantly, the girl tied up on the wooden chair in the middle of the hotel bedroom.
“Daisy! What the fuck are you doing with my daughter, you SICK…”
“Relax, John. We’ve done nothing to her at all. At least, not yet. The live feed isn’t scheduled to start for another couple of hours yet. One of our top revenue sites, this one. A premium rate, but we do offer a premium service to our registered subscribers. It’s a little…specialist, I grant you, but our customer satisfaction surveys show….”
“YOU EVIL, TWISTED BASTARD! You’ll do anything to get your way, won’t you? My own daughter! And you say you’re a religious man…”
“She’s a sinner, John. Do you know what she’s been getting up to with that holiday company, out there in sunny Spain? That holiday company for “lively young party people”? You know as well as I do what they trade on. Same thing as me. Sex, sex, sex. It’s a tits and ass world, John. So wake up and smell the coffee. She’s not your special little girl any more. She’s a sinner, just like all the rest of those bitches out there. Told you I didn’t believe in that salvation shit. So how about a little of that retribution shit instead, huh? Or – you could just – get – on – that – fucking – plane. It’s a simple enough choice. So what’s it to be?”
posted by mike at
11:20 PM
