The beggars and vagabonds who congregate in certain streets of our dear city have long been a distressing sight to those us of a more delicate sensibility, but the times, as the poet says, they are a changing. So top marks to the enterprising fellows who are offering these layabouts a shot in the arm – literally. For a single pint of the red stuff donated by our rank friends will earn them the princely sum of a silver dollar. This columnist, for one, thinks that they’ve got a lot more to lose by not taking part.

I fold the newspaper and notice the blood smeared on the white bed sheet. Not again. This isn’t still happening, is it? I take a drag on my smoke and cross my legs, pulling the blanket over my cooling skin, covering the stain. Next door he takes his shower, the water drumming loudly on the porcelain – a beat both sated and content. I suppose he still can’t quite believe his luck, reeling in a girl twelve years his junior, and him counting his first grey hairs. At eighteen, though, I have learned to make my own life choices. I look at the newspaper again, at the thin column in smudged type, and the paucity of choice is starkly defined.

Dorian steps back into the room, a towel around his waist. His blonde hair looks dry and straw-like despite its obvious dampness. He is lean, small muscles taut and bunched on his wiry frame, and he moves about the room ungracefully but with care, like a man nervous of putting a foot wrong. There’s something attractive about men who are stage-struck on the boards of life. They never seem sure whether they’re a bit-part player or the star, and I always want to know what they think they’ve got to lose. ‘Come on, October. We’re meeting them in twenty minutes. Get ready.’

‘Is this a social gathering or more business?’

He gives me an I’m-not-answering-that look.

‘I’ll bring my book.’

I drag a comb through my tangled hair, wondering whether to grow it – thinking that I look too boyish, though that has suited me for long enough. A smock of his, an Indian-print skirt and sandals complete this take-it-or-leave-it look and then I’m following him through the door, down the stone stairs and into the street. It is early evening and the long, reclining shadows lend the city a twilight decadence. Everything seems used up, or at least overstretched. The artists’ quarter is just beginning to stir, of course. Metal shutters rattle upwards and small zinc tables and chairs are bounced with a clatter onto the pavements by listless serving staff. Evening in this part of town breathes entertainment – and I’m not about to argue with that despite Dorian’s intentions.

We don’t have far to walk since Dorian’s rooms are unfashionably located in the quarter itself. Most of the people we are about to meet live in other districts – Galleon, Rindbutte or even as far as sooty Chemytown. The guild members I’ve met tell me location is the key to good living in the city, but Dorian doesn’t think so. He says the differences between districts are only found inside their heads, that they imagine them. They have a powerful imaginations then, I think. I agree with him though, as it happens – the streets are all the same. It’s what goes on behind the closed doors that matters.

‘Keep up, girl,’ he says from several feet in front of me.

To tell the truth, I’m in no hurry to get to Quango’s. It’s one of those bars that seem to spring up overnight, magicked into existence by the whim or will of their patrons, where the overriding concern is making a statement, being noticed. Inside Quango’s, the walls and ceiling have been splashed in a foul colour I heard someone call ‘noir’. It looks like shit, literally, and the few electric lamps that stand on the tables giving out their feeble light can barely compete with its ‘noirness’. Dorian and his associates have adopted this bar and as a result it is packed out with hangers-on or anyone else who likes to be seen in the right places. In a couple of weeks they’ll move on and in time Quango’s will wither and die. One night it will simply vanish altogether – magicked back into oblivion.

‘Hey, Dorian, I’ve missed you!’ shouts a red-haired girl with a rouged face from across the street. The girls she’s standing with titter excitedly. Their gaudy clothes clash violently with one another and the moth-eaten parasols they carry cause these nightbirds of paradise to look as though they are suffering an attack of mange. They have a long night ahead of them in this quarter, there are a variety of tastes to satisfy. Dorian strides on, his head held so high that his pencil neck might snap in the breeze.

At the corner of Apogee Yard we turn down the steep stairs and then we’re in. Dorian is clapped on the back by a beaming doorman who barely glances at me. I know my station. As soon as we’ve stepped inside I see that we’re the last to arrive. Aristotle X, Claudia, the brothers Smirk – they fill the banquette at the back reserved for Dorian and his associates.

Claudia (pronounced Cloud-ee-ah) takes my hand and pulls me into the space next to her, snuggling up to me. She’s wearing a skirt covered in feathers stained a shocking violet which poke and tickle me at the same time. As usual, she’s motherly and fussing over me. ‘How yer doing, sweetie? Let’s get you a drink.’

‘You’re always buying me drinks.’

‘Whatever you want, yer know that.’

I smile vacantly, preparing to let her attentions and the rest of the evening wash over me, when my arm is lanced by pain.

‘You okay, dearie?’

I nod. Fuck. This is sore.

‘Have you seen the space?’ asks Aristotle, getting down to business.

‘Yes,’ says Dorian. ‘It will do. I noticed only one of the screens was on its stand. Is there a problem?’

Claudia interrupts Aristotle in her best schoolmarm voice. ‘A misunderstanding at the gallery, that is all. My staff didn’t realise that Aristotle would have to undertake extensive rewiring.’

‘That place is a death-trap,’ hisses Aristotle. I can smell the cheap beer on his breath from here.

Claudia holds her hands up peaceably. ‘But it is all sorted now.’

If I hold the arm, the pain lessens. Why is that?

‘And the plasma screens themselves. Will they be ready? We only have a week before the opening.’

‘The screens are fine,’ says Aristotle gruffly. ‘It’s your boys here who’ve got work to do.’

The brothers grin at each other. ‘You’ve nothing to worry about, Dorian,’ says Otto.

‘Nah,’ chuckles Dorf, ‘it’s all in hand. Leave the behind-the-scenes stuff to us.’

‘Just as long as everything is ready.’

‘I’m yer right hand,’ says Otto.

‘And I’m yer left,’ says his brother. They laugh.

Dorian relaxes now that everything is settled. He reaches across Claudia to squeeze my knee, but I get up quickly. ‘Where’s she going?’ he asks Claudia.

I lock myself in a cubicle and sit on the pan, lid down. The light in the toilet is dim, but I can see where the smock is stained red. I roll up my sleeve and peel away the layers of tissue paper crusted and damp with blood. The pain is now an ache, but I still wince when I see the little red hole in the skin over the artery. As I watch, it weeps accusingly and a watery red tear runs down my forearm. Why won’t it stop?

*

What will the Artists’ Guild think of next? I’m reliably informed that Plank’s Gallery is soon to feature a show displaying nothing but the three exhibitors themselves sitting and thinking. The work is to be called ‘Three Months’, a title that refers to the recent period in which each has found themselves ‘conceptually barren’. One hopes that the prospective buyers visiting Plank’s to the view this ‘art’ will inspire our three barren artists to get up off their backsides!

‘Cities are full of hatred, fear and lies.’ That’s what my uncle told me just before I ran away from home. I don’t know how he guessed my intentions or why he even tried to deter me – I was an ungrateful child – but the fact of the matter is that I couldn’t stay in his house another day longer. Even at that age I knew that the city had what I couldn’t find on the farm or in the village, and the scheming demons he talked of seemed a small price to pay. I wanted nights bright and bristling with the lights and sounds of opportunities, not the dark emptiness of miles and miles of fields and hedgerows with only the stars for company. I was a city girl at heart. Where else would my own fears and lies be most at home?

The preparations for Dorian’s exhibition gather apace. Dorian is at the studio most days, leaving me to roam his apartment or venture out onto the streets. But I just can’t stray beyond the threshold without a terrible guilt weighing me down, leaching the joy out of the day and souring my mood. It’s barely a week since we met and already I’m a prisoner here in his apartment, only able to leave it when accompanied by him. I feel strangely dependent on him, as if I owe him something. Instead of making the most of this situation and acquainting myself with more of the city, I’ve grown attached to his leather armchair, curling up in it and reading a book or dozing until he comes home. I’ve felt so tired recently.

Dickens must be laughing at me now. He always sees how my affairs are going to end – even before I’ve started them. Forget the soothsayers in the fair, he’s the one with true foresight. I dream of him sometimes. He’s ever watchful, like a guardian angel; he stands there picking bits of food out of his beard and laughing at me. The strange thing is he never says anything in my dreams; even when I speak to him, he never replies. Even his laughter is silent. I didn’t dream of him today, though. My dreams this afternoon have been haunted by wheels rattling by on cobbles. A cart slowing as it passed, creaking almost to a halt and then speeding away. Each wooden spoke a revolving soldier standing to attention on the rim.

I’m woken by the click of a key in the lock. The front-door catch clunks open. Several pairs of feet squeak across the tiled hall floor; someone laughs. I draw my legs up onto the armchair as they enter the room. Dorian, Claudia and a man I don’t recognise. The stranger is dressed in a close-fitting dark suit and wears a stovepipe hat, which he hastily removes when he sees me; he is carrying a leather briefcase. As they sit down, Claudia winks at me. Dorian and the man are making small talk – discussing the blackouts of recent weeks – eyeing one another warily. I don’t think they can be friends. The man leans towards me. ‘Hi, my name is Tohiesan.’

I smile in return. ‘Of course it is.’

‘And you are?’

‘October Morrell, part-time concubine.’

Pleasantries now over, Dorian says quickly: ‘Shall we begin?’

Tohiesan rummages in his briefcase and removes a small tape recorder which he places on the coffee table. He pushes the red record button. ‘Okay. Dorian, firstly I’d like to ask you to explain the title of your new exhibition: “You are my Muse”.’

‘It’s about the contract between the artist and his audience. It’s about the expectations that we both have of each other and how those are fulfilled, or not, as the case may be. I should make it clear that this isn’t an exhibition for everyone – I like to make those who come to see my shows work a little bit. I mean I have, so why shouldn’t they?’ He laughs at his own joke.

‘The council banned your last show and you’ve kept the details of “You are My Muse” quite secret – no one knows anything about the work to be displayed – are you scared that the authorities will react in a similar fashion?’

‘There is nothing controversial about it. “The Mayor’s New Underclothes” was closed because of a misunderstanding. A bureaucratic muddle that a narrow-minded civil servant allowed to get out of hand. The reason “You are My Muse” is being kept under wraps is that there is nothing to show anyone at the moment. Once the exhibition is opened, the pieces will only exist for a short time – a few days or weeks at most.’

‘I’d just like to add,’ says Claudia, ‘that I have had assurances from the watch that they’ll not interfere in the affairs of my gallery. They’ve had their fingers burnt once, and they’re not keen to repeat the experience, darlin’.’

This talk surprises me. I didn’t know Dorian was actually important. I really thought he was an impostor, some small-time paintbrush wielder who talked big. While I was laying it on thick the night we met, he was simply being modest. The exchange hardly seems worth it. If he believed himself then did he actually believe me too? For some reason I feel bad about this. I thought we knew where we stood here. He got something, I got something. That’s how relationships work – a little give and take. Now this journalist has come along and spoilt everything. I mean, what is it that I’ve got to give him?

I force my sluggish legs into action. I’m into the bedroom and slipping into my shoes, throwing my coat – the one I stopped wearing a week ago – over my shoulders. On my way out, I stop by Dorian, waiting for him to finish.

‘You see it’s the perfect marriage of medium and subject – yes, October?’

‘I’m going out.’ He doesn’t look sad or happy or irritated or anything, but I bend down and kiss him on the cheek anyway. I turn and walk down the hall, the click of the chequered black and white tiles under my shoes breaking up their conversation.

*

At a party I attended last night, Lord Peter Wimsey – aren’t the English aristocracy simply adorable? I for one am so grateful that the Lord Peters of the world choose to winter here, they enliven the season with their banter and their public affairs! – declared that the ‘class’ system in our dear city was well and truly dead. ‘Where else in the world,’ he asked, ‘could both a gent and a serf be able to stand at the same gaming table and lose a fortune together?’ Admirable sentiments indeed!

‘You reek of money, girl. I could smell you from the end of the street.’ Dickens’ voice is gritty with disapproval. ‘You want to stay away from the likes of me. I’ll just touch you for the money in your pocket. I won’t be able to help myself.’

‘You’re welcome to it.’

‘That sounds suspiciously like charity, my girl. I won’t have that kind of talk round here.’ Disgruntled, he settles down in his grey rags, nestling himself in his favourite rug. His face is tanned and dirty at the same time, skin the colour of stewed tea. Long wisps of white hair soften his coarse features – the hard unfriendly mouth, sharp nose and pointy chin.

Dog Lane is not as busy as when I was last here. A dozen beggars have their patches staked out and the few passers by who have not had the sense to choose an alternative route and taken this short cut are finding passage is costly. Paying money to one only encourages the others. Catcalls, insults and pathetic requests for money follow them down the street – a strange echo of their passing. I settle down next to my friend. What’s this? I fish out a hard crust of bread from the blanket and fling it away. ‘I see your personal habits haven’t improved.’

‘I’m an old man,’ he protests. ‘If I drop something it stays dropped. Besides, you aren’t around here to pick it up for me, are you?’

He’s sorry the moment it’s out his mouth, but he looks away, trying to remain aloof, keeping his chin above all this nonsense. He fumbles through his things until he finds his book, opens the tattered covers of a book with the name Fourier on the spine. He flicks through its brown pages until he finds the one he wants. Then he closes it in frustration and says: ‘How are the new digs?’

‘You know. The same as usual. People are always expecting things of me,’ I say ungratefully.

‘We lost Mary the other day. It made the papers. Did you see it?’

I nod.

‘The watch were upset, grumbling about how it made them look bad. They’re threatening to come back with the steam cannon if we don’t move along.’

‘Did you tell them about the carts?’

He sighs. ‘They’re not interested. These blackouts are running them ragged. Anyway, no one wants to investigate the death of a beggar. Why should they? The problem’s already gone away. Can’t say I blame them.’

‘You still tempted by the money?’

‘Of course. It’s an honest trade: they get something and I get something in return. Charity creates an imbalance – this way I can hold my head up high and say, I earned this.’ His face clouds over. ‘How’s your arm?’

‘Still bleeding on and off. I reckon the amount of blood I’ve lost would’ve earned me a couple more dollars by now. They owe me.’

‘You’ve done the right thing, you know. You need to keep your strength up. If you’d stayed here you’d be going the way of Mary. I’ve seen it happen too many times.’

I shake my head. ‘Doesn’t make it right, though.’

A young woman turns the corner and walks briskly down the street, her heels quite unable to cope with the smooth cobbles. Wobbling like a drunk, she passes Dickens and myself. She flicks open her purse and drops two coins into the cup placed at his feet and staggers away.

‘Oi! What do you think you’re doing?’ he shouts.

She keeps walking, holding her hat as if it might protect her from his outburst.

Dickens climbs to his feet and his voice is loud with indignation. ‘Do you hear? I don’t want your money! I’ve got my self-respect to think of. How will I ever learn to do anything for myself? I’ll never become a productive member of society if you people chuck coins at me while I sit here on my arse all day. Ever think of that?’

The woman ignores him. ‘I’ll only spend it on drink, you know!’ he shouts after her, pocketing the money. He sits down, shaking his head. ‘Some people.’

‘Don’t be so ungrateful. They give you their change because they think it will make you happy.’

He laughs at me as if I’ve just told a joke.

‘I’m worried about these watch patrols. They want to be rid of us. You see how empty the street’s looking. They’re down here most nights picking us off one by one, moving us on or dropping the unlucky ones outside the walls before dawn. See, if beggars are inconveniencing them by getting themselves killed, then the answer to that problem is simple: get rid of the beggars. Problem solved. ’Course the Council won’t admit that’s what they’re doing.’

‘At least if the watch have their eyes open they might take notice and step in to halt the donor business.’

He shakes his head. ‘To the watch, I’m just a live corpse until I’m a dead one.’ He laughs again.

‘Well be careful. I worry about you.’

‘I’ve told you about sentiment, my girl. It’s got no place in the modern world – least of all this city. If you can’t buy and sell your friends then they’re not worth having. Now get back to where you’ve just come from. Von Neumann had it right. To survive in this game we’ve gotta choose a path with the best worst-case scenario.’

At the far end of Dog Lane I see one of the carts slowly wending its way towards us, rolling over the cobbles with difficulty. The old nag pulling it is a dull-eyed, emaciated creature yet it struggles on without complaint. The sides of the cart are decorated with a simple, but – to the denizens of Dog Lane – beguiling slogan: one pint-one dollar.

A coin chinks in Dickens’ tin cup. I look up in time to see the ruddy, moustached face of an elderly man turning away quickly. Too late. ‘Keep me on the streets why don’t you? Feed my habit . . .’

*

Regular readers of this column will know of my concern for the plight of the beggars who, having strayed from the beggar settlements where they can be adequately cared for, find themselves inside our city walls. It distresses me to have to inform you that four beggars have been found dead in the last two weeks suffering from a mysterious anaemia. The watch have shown no interest in their situation, nor in fact have my fellow journalists, and in despair I have written to our Mayor in the hope that he can mobilise his resources into doing something about this scandal.

The setting sun has stained the cloudless evening sky violet and the air up here hums with the comforting drone of zeppelin engines. They circle waiting for a berth, their mooring ropes dangling down to earth like feelers and their running-lights winking red with impatience. The city streets, eight or so storeys below, their noise and bustle, their very existence, seem immaterial from the terrace where only rooftops are visible. Up here you could easily forget them if you chose to do so.

There have been problems at the gallery and to make amends Claudia has lent Dorian her penthouse apartment for the evening. Its terraced roof looks westward across Galleon and the artists’ quarter, over the city walls and the grey smudge of Babble to the dusky mountains beyond. We dine on fresh fish – landed less than an hour ago, gutted and fried in front of us by the help – with all the trimmings. In the chill night air our meal is invigorating; the wine intoxicating.

‘We still know very little about one another,’ he says. ‘It’s like we’re strangers.’ He slurs this last word and I realise that he’s more than a little drunk.

‘Isn’t that part of the fun – getting to know people is so full of disappointments.’

‘Maybe, but what’s the alternative?’

‘Ignorance can be bliss.’

‘Really.’ He pours himself another glass, slopping wine down its side. It is thick and oily – a ruby darkness in the fading light. ‘Tell me, where do you go when you leave my flat? Not back home?’

‘I visit my friend Dickens.’

‘Boy friend or girl?’

I laugh. ‘Boy, but that would be stretching the truth somewhat. He’s as ancient as the grave. I doubt he remembers being a boy, if he ever was. He’s one of those people who I can only ever think of as being old; if he wasn’t old he wouldn’t be Dickens. He’s like an antique.’

‘Have you known each other long?’

‘A few years.’ I sip my wine. ‘He’s the wisest person I’ve ever met.’

‘Do you live together?.’

‘Kind of. It’s more like we’re companions when it suits us.’ He’s staring at me closely, more intently than I’ve ever seen him look. ‘Except at the moment. We’ve parted company. I went walkabout.’

‘You’ve run away?’

‘Not really. I just thought I’d be better off elsewhere at the moment.’

He smiles, baring his teeth. ‘No ties, eh? Sounds like the easy life.’

‘It suits me. I don’t like clutter in my life.’

‘You’re a minimalist!’ He laughs. ‘When we met I thought you were some angry rich kid, the daughter of a banker or someone, out to embarrass her parents.’

‘You liked that I didn’t know who you were.’

‘Of course. It was as if it didn’t matter to you who I was.’

‘As if?’

He claps his hands together, laughing. ‘You walked straight into the closed circle, October, without batting those pretty little eyelids of yours.’

‘I don’t understand.’

He drains his glass and gasps as the wine goes down. ‘The artists quarter feeds off itself like any closed shop. If you want in, you have to pay your dues. Suck up royally to the right people; make your connections. It’s all about who’s been to see what, or who’s in or out among the gallery owners, dealers, artists and buyers. Contrary to our various manifestos we look inwards not outwards, those outside the circle don’t matter – just as long as they too are looking in at us. Once you’re inside that circle, though, nothing else matters – and that’s what everyone tells you.’

‘Doesn’t that affect your work? It’s hardly the bohemian life.’

‘The guild functions like any other – ensuring the recognition of its craftsmen. Once you’re a member you can do as you wish, safe in the knowledge that your interests are being protected. And you do get protection. You’re too young to remember the strike, but the Council won’t forget that in a hurry. Their mistake was to underestimate the public’s hunger for art.’

‘We need you, do we?’

‘Of course.’

‘Sounds like the opposite of my life.’

‘Until now. Now you’ve found your way in.’

‘Yes, I suppose I have.’

‘Through me.’

‘I’m grateful.’

I notice that the bandage on my arm is spotted with red. Damn.

He points at the vegetables – my untouched broccoli and steamed seaweed. ‘Eat that – it’s got plenty of iron and vitamin K. It’ll help your body produce more red blood cells and the little platelets and fibrins that help clotting. I know you won’t listen but you really should see a doctor.’

‘I’ve told you, I’m fine.’

‘As a man I’ve got about ten pints of blood in me. You, being female, have less. How much more do you think you can lose?’

‘People give blood all the time and they’re fine. I don’t want to talk about it.’

Dorian leans forward and takes my hand. He pulls me close and kisses me on the lips. Long and deep, taking my breath. ‘Let me kiss it better,’ he says drunkenly.

His fingers play up my arm and slowly unravel the cotton bandage. With care, he uncovers the wound. The hole in my forearm is a small red crater, yellow-rimmed and painful to look at. Dorian circles it with his finger, touching my skin sensitively, sending shivers up my arm. Like a doctor probing for a symptom, he places two fingers either side of the hole and he presses down on the skin, into my flesh. I feel no pain, but a small bubble of blood rises out of the crater, swells above the rim and bursts. I bite my lip as he watches, hypnotized.

Part of me says take the arm back, but some other voice says no. His eyes hold mine for a moment and I know that he will not be distracted from this. He bends down with his tongue extended and licks my forearm all the way up to the wound. I feel the caress of his tongue – hot and wet – then he places his whole mouth over it. It is hot for a moment and then he sucks, French kisses my hurt. I want to scream – not with pain, but with some other sensation, some feeling I cannot describe. Some emotion that is not my own. I try and pull my arm back but my body won’t let me, he simply won’t let me. I close my eyes and imagine his teeth are chewing into the flesh, ripping through spraying arteries, that he’s gnawing on sinew and bone.

He leans back and smiles at me. His teeth are stained red, blood drips down his chin like wine. ‘Let’s always be strangers,’ he says.

*

Blackouts. I’m sure I speak for everyone when I say that enough is enough. Yet the worst of it is that the situation was not brought about by a lack of money, or energy, or resources, or manpower or any of the usual reasons trotted out by the various authorities, industrialists and merchants when they fail the public. No. This is about lack of foresight and under investment – in fact, it is a clear demonstration of a chronic lack of will on the part of the Council to address the fundamentals of city life.

Straw. The liquid behind the glass is the colour of straw. Through it I can see the elongated shapes of the other guests, their bright clothes stained monochrome yellow, their features blurred. I ignore them and concentrate on what is happening in the translucent fluid. Threads criss-cross the glass. In places they radiate out from little clumps of matter suspended in the liquid, like spokes from the hub of a wheel. The clumps grow, almost imperceptibly, accumulating matter. The arteries which leave them are slowly lengthening and thickening. They intersect and link together, forming new nodes of connection as they grow, creating beautiful red cobwebs that sway in the circulating currents of the plasma. This close to the glass screen I can feel the warmth it gives off. I touch it. And pull my finger back, shocked. The glass is body temperature and it feels as if there is nothing there, just the solid force of resistance. The stand on which the tank, or screen as Dorian calls it, rests is humming quietly. Is this the circulation or the heating apparatus? The lights in the base? I read the title of the piece: ‘Me and You Machine’. I don’t understand it. There are maybe ten others like it in the small gallery. The black walls and subdued lighting allow the tanks to dominate the room. Each holds, in the narrow space between two sheets of glass, more yellow plasma in which the cobweb shapes with their intersecting nodes are slowly growing. The strands inside are made of many different colours and form all kinds of shapes – some tanks hold dense, tightly arranged structures whilst others seem almost empty with just a few stray lines of connection. The way the patterns shine over the spotlights is nothing if not beautiful. People are talking excitedly about the work. The catalogue informs me of the pieces’ names: ‘Course of the Fisherman’, ‘The City Grows at Night’, ‘Dealer’, ‘Time is Immaterial’, ‘Speculate to Accumulate’, ‘All Borders are Manmade’. I look at the list but it means nothing to me.

Behind the glass, though the patterns do make sense. They have beauty – their texture, colour, the angles of intersection, the shapes they make seem natural, somehow real. Does that make sense? I turn around and I’m confronted by what’s on this side of the glass. The free-flowing bubbly, the canapés, the expensive dresses and the sharp shoes. But it’s the sound that I feel most of all. The tanks hum and I feel my arm throb in sympathy. What a strange resonance. I feel I ought to back away, but the pulses are almost hypnotic and I lean closer. I am drawn to this liquid world, though we are separated by the solidity of the plate glass. Outside of this amniotic world is the chatter, the laughter, the babble of words streaming out of the corners of mouths. Invisibly, air is drawn into the lungs and is blown out changed – a message imprinted on it; the used breath only to be sucked in by the rest of us. The clinking of glasses touching briefly. Hands on arms and shoulders as people greet one another. Cheeks barely touching as they kiss the air. Little parcels of food and glasses of champagne are surrendered by the waiting staff. This is a feeding frenzy, just like Dorian said. I stand with my back to ‘Me and You Machine’, feeling the warmth of the glass on my shoulders, feeling trapped and small, almost unable to talk, the throb in my arm beating like a second heart. What is this sensation?

‘Dearie, what you playin’ at over here on yer own, eh?’ Claudia is dressed to the nines, a stunning peacock’s tail of vanity in mauve and green. She sees my face. ‘Are you alright, girl?’

‘Just enjoying the party. What else could I be doing?’

‘Really? Could’ve fooled me.’

I need to relax. I give her a blank look, hoping she’ll go away. No dice. She pulls my arm. I can’t resist the force of this woman. On our way she sticks a joint between my fingers. ‘Get some of that inside yer. It’ll do yer good.’

‘Don’t suppose Dorian’s introduced yer to any of his friends. He’s terrible, isn’t he. He says it’s shyness, but I’ve got another word for it. Bleeding selfish it is.’

Before I know it, she’s left me next to Dorian, who’s standing in a corner talking to the Brothers Smirk. I turn but Claudia’s vanished, her mission of mercy successfully completed.

‘Just calm down and have a drink. We can talk about this tomorrow.’

‘Dorian, quit pissing us about. We want our money.’

‘And we’re not leaving until we get it.’

‘Please, let’s talk tomorrow. I can’t help you now. This is a party, have a few drinks. Relax!’

‘The arrangement was on delivery. Collection, separation, storage and delivery were all taken care of on schedule.’

‘We took big risks getting the plasma and the watch will only turn a blind eye if they’re well-paid. We’re out of pocket.’

‘You said, you’d pay the costs. If you don’t feel like settling up we can always take it back to the warehouse. The refrigeration vats are paid for till the weekend.’

‘No skin off of our nose.’

‘There’s no need for threats. This is a party.’

I step back, not wanting to get involved, losing patience with their conversation’s loops. I feel disinterested in Dorian’s problems as the dope takes a hold of me. Aristotle X is showing that journalist – Tohiesan? – one of the exhibits. It’s called ‘Speculate to Accumulate’.

‘Hello,’ he says morosely when he sees me. ‘Enjoying yourself?’

‘You got it all sorted out in time, I see.’

‘What?’ He’s drunk or very stoned. Tohiesan smiles politely at me. I wonder if he remembers who I am.

‘The plasma screens that you were having problems with – you fixed them.’

‘It wasn’t the tanks. It was the plasma. We couldn’t get enough – and it’s not as if hospitals will sell it to you over the counter. But that’s not my problem. Until I knew what kind of plasma we would have – the exact consistency, mind – I didn’t know what resistance to set the electrical field in the screens.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘It’s like this,’ he slurs, warming to his subject, ‘the liquid is plasma, yeah – blood with all the little red and white corpuscles removed. Just a bunch of enzymes, proteins, hormones and the like. And platelets. Now when you add the chemical Rikon to the plasma, it binds to the platelets making them susceptible to an electric field. When the field stimulates the platelets they bind together, thickening along the lines of force, forming these pretty patterns. It’s all entirely random, but self-organising. Here you have Dorian’s work. Simple and beautiful.’

‘Blood. Not human blood?’ asks the journalist.

‘Plasma,’ repeats Aristotle, irritated at his inattentiveness.

‘And where does he get the plasma?’

‘You see, Dorian’s a subversive at heart. A subversive artist. He always keeps something back, always leaves his fans and critics with a tantalising missing piece. And being Dorian he’ll tell you that missing piece is key to understanding the whole project.’ He laughs, stumbling against the journalist. ‘Hogwash!’

Dorian is standing by one of the tanks – I think it’s called ‘Course of the Fisherman’. The argument has not diffused and the two brothers look angry.

‘Let’s go and talk to Dorian,’ I say, not caring whether my companions come with me or not.

‘Can we please talk after the party. There are people I need to see.’

‘You just don’t get it.’

‘I’m going to hit him in a minute,’ says Dorf.

‘There’s nothing I can do at the moment.’

Dorian is leaning against the screen for support, as if it might offer him some protection. Some of the guests have by now noticed the commotion, seeing the star of the show harangued by two thugs who’ve got by the security. I step between Dorian and the brothers.

‘Dorian,’ asks Tohiesan, ‘can you tell me where you got the blood plasma to fill these tanks? How much does each one hold?’

The brothers aren’t happy with this, with the attention. Dorian is trying to step away, sidle past me like a crab.

‘Get out of the way, girl,’ says Otto – or is it Dorf – ‘this is none of your business.’ He yanks my arm, squeezing my wound. I let out a yelp.

Aristotle lunges forward. ‘Oi! Leave her alone.’ Drinks spill, a glass falls to the floor, exploding on impact. Aristotle is pushed by a Smirk, and he trips, sliding past me and falling into Dorian.

I hear the sound of wood splintering and suddenly Dorian is falling backwards, his back pressed flat against the glass tank shearing off the wooden base. He topples over the base, glass shatters and plasma gushes over the floor with the sound like a wave breaking on a beach. The lights flicker momentarily and then go out. The last I see of him are his legs uselessly scissoring the air

‘Bloody useless electrics,’ mumbles Aristotle nearby. Then the air is shrill with the sounds of panic.

*

My editor recently remarked that we columnists are a strange breed, locking ourselves away at home with our typewriters, sending out epistles to the paper to be lapped up by our fellow men and women. Why? I asked. Well, he wondered aloud, it’s a solitary life this writing thing – so how is it that you know just what will interest your readers day in and day out? If you really want to know the answer to that, I told him, lock yourself in the attic room with a blank piece of paper and a pencil. You’ll soon find the answer you’re looking for.

The barman puts my drink on the counter and I hand over the last of my change. The last of my money. He smiles at me as I count it out, then goes back to his seat and his newspaper. It’s pushing midnight but Quango’s is empty – those of us who’ve come to enjoy the ‘noir’ ambience can be counted on the fingers of both hands. Oblivion is catching up with the bar and I half expected it to be closed when I turned up this evening. Looking around, it’s clear that a slow process of disassembly is under way. The electric lamps have gone, replaced by candles that make it seem medieval rather than rustic (is this a solution to the problem of the blackouts or a cost-cutting measure?). The spirit bottles are supermarket brands. The cigarette machine is out of order. The bar has changed, but it is an unconvincing mutation.

The artists have gone elsewhere, taking their flatterers with them. But I like the quiet that can now be found in Quango’s and I shall be sorry when it closes. Strange that just a few weeks ago I found the bar repulsive, yet a change in both our circumstances makes us welcome each other like friends. Somehow, though, I don’t think this quiet life is the one it would choose if it had the option.

‘Bless me! Hello, dearie. Where’ve you been hiding?’

Goodness. ‘Claudia. I didn’t expect to see you here.’

‘Not by the look on yer face, anyways.’ She laughs. Her dark hair is greased and plastered against her skull, forming a tail at the back which snakes around her neck, tapering away on her chest. Her dress is a dark sequined thing that has seen better days. ‘So,’ she says. ‘Do you want a drink?’

‘Erm. No. I was just leaving.’

‘Stay and have one with me.

‘I’d rather not, that is, I can’t.’

‘But I’d love to have a chat. You know, catch up a bit.’

‘You can walk me home, if you like.’

This is clearly not what she had in mind, but I don’t need to take any more of her crap. ‘Let’s go.’

Reluctantly she hoists her small bag onto her shoulder and follows me out. For some reason I still get a kick out of the fact that we have to open the door for ourselves when we leave. Outside, I’m glad I have the protection of my coat for it is a chill, moonless night. Claudia has only her dress.

‘How’s the gallery?’

She hugs herself. ‘Yer know. Still waiting for a decent exhibition to come my way. Had a couple of small shows, but it don’t bring in the money.’

I take out my last cigarette and light it. I take a draw and offer it to Claudia. She eagerly has a few puffs and passes it back.

‘Thanks. Don’t yer want to know how he’s doing?’

The street lighting is patchy and we have to be careful where we put our feet. I remember reading in the paper about power shortages and wondering what this has got to do with me.

‘You were good for him, yer know.’

‘I don’t believe that. We barely knew each other.’

‘He says that yer both clicked.’

‘We both got what we wanted. He just wanted more.’

‘He’s worried about you, concerned about your arm. He says you’ve got a cut.’

I laugh. ‘That cleared up soon after the night of the opening. I left him because I realised that it was over. We’re just different people.’

‘He’s had problems. There’s an investigation now that those Smirk boys have been arrested. It’s that journalist’s fault. Dorian was called in for questioning. We’ve had the devil of a time convincing the watch that Dorian knew nothing about how they got the blood. Do yer know what the press call him? “The Vampyre”. It’ll ruin his reputation.’

Despite the cold – or perhaps because of it – the girls with the parasols gathered on the few lighted street corners, their coloured clothes burnt a monochrome orange, outnumber the passers by. We look away from them when we walk past, because we are nothing to do with each other, as though we are a separate species.

‘He wants you back,’ she says.

We pass The Last Exit Café which is busy, thronged with people. ‘This is where I leave you,’ I say, indicating Dog Lane. ‘Thanks for walking me home.’

I leave her shivering on the pavement and walk down the lighted street. Dickens hasn’t moved our patch since the evening, which means the watch haven’t been by. He’s curled up with a stray cat I befriended yesterday. It’s no more than a kitten rejected by its mother, but another waif and stray won’t be out of place down here.

I snuggle down amongst the cardboard and trash, pulling a blanket over my legs. ‘Nothing happening?’ asks Dickens with one eye open. I shake my head. ‘Thought as much.’ He looks at me strangely. ‘Here,’ he says, rummaging in his pocket, ‘I saved this. Get yourself down the baths, tomorrow. Give yourself a good scrubbing.’ He thrusts some coins in my hands.

‘Thanks.’

‘Not charity. You stink and me and the cat have had enough. It was either you go or we do. G’night.’

I pocket the money. Up above a zeppelin ambles across the dark sky, its engines revving as it accelerates on its way somewhere. I suppose I should check. I wriggle my left arm out the coat and roll up my shirt sleeve. The bandage is dry. I unpeel it and as I remove each layer a faint pin-prick grows until it’s the size of a large coin. The wound is a dark hole and the chill air on my arm gives me goose flesh. Why won’t it stop?

I blink and when I open my eyes the street is in darkness. Power outage. I get back into my clothes and curl up against Dickens.

‘Look,’ he says. ‘Look up there.’

The sky is black, free of the sodium orange pollution – at last without human stain. And for the first time since I arrived in the city I see the white stars against the dark backcloth of night, glorious and terrifying and so far, far away.

(C) Colin Brush, 2005