Husk (12 page)

Two blocks away I stop running and slip into an old telephone box to catch my breath. The blood on my hands makes me feel like vomiting again. I need more rest, need to get in another ten or twelve hours’ sleep back at the hotel. I suddenly want to call Phineas. I know he’s in
London, though I suspect he might already be in session. Speaking into my Liaison, I leave a message for him instead to pick up when he’s done.

‘Need to have that chat soon, my friend,’ I say. ‘Pick a place and make sure you call me when your job is done.’

Sick and muttering, I roam the streets of London in the rain until I find an entrance to the Tube and descend. For an hour I ride the Underground
aimlessly, crammed in my seat, hypnotized by the tunnel lights flashing outside the windows. Being below ground is comforting somehow, the train carriage packed with mute passengers pressed in around me, the closest thing to a cocoon I can manage. Eventually I feel good enough to make my way back to my hotel and I crawl into bed. Soon I’m sleeping like the dead, dreaming about one of the
worst periods of my life, when me and my family hit rock bottom.

Rock bottom for my family happened when my parents tried to get their kids into modelling. It all started with some slick guy in a suit coming up to us in an outlet mall one day, praising my folks for having such beautiful offspring, saying we all had that
‘star quality’ about us. After laying on the charm, he gave us his card, said he was a talent scout for a top modelling agency, talked on and on about fashion royalty, designer labels, lifestyles of the rich and famous. The promises were plentiful, the suggestions lucrative. Mom and Dad fell for it hook, line and sinker. They emptied their savings account into headshots and demo reels, outfits
and shoes, paying agency fees up front. The twinkle in my parents’ eyes made me eager to please them. In all honesty, both my sisters and I salivated over the prospect of wealth and success for little more than donning new clothes and posing for photographers. The agency told us to be patient, said they were setting things up, and that they would be in touch.

Nothing ever came of it. No gigs
were booked. In fact, the phone never rang once. Weeks went by with no contact. Frustrated, my mother called the modelling agency one day, only to discover the number was out of service. She went to their office and found the place gutted and abandoned. The con men had moved overnight. Hundreds
of suckers had been caught in the scam, fleeced by these assholes. My family was back in the shit, broke
and without prospects. It almost destroyed us. Precious little held the unit together after that. Years later, with all those savings gone, there was no way to pay for my older sister’s cancer treatments when she fell ill. She eventually died because we’d bought some magic beans. That is all I dream about throughout the night, the guilt of it ravaging my slumber.

Late the next morning a kindly
old man in a tweed jacket arrives at my hotel in a Rolls-Royce Phantom. He is polite and charming and asks only that I call him Phillip. He takes my bags and drives me out to the countryside of Kent, where his employer resides. We chat for the whole ride. I find myself chuckling at his pithy little jokes. I wind down the window, taking in the rural sights and smells. Low rolling hills rise and fall
in all directions. Little crops of cobblestone houses appear along the roadside nestled in plots of lush, damp vegetation. It’s peaceful out here. I find myself nodding off periodically, only to be stirred awake by Phillip’s ramblings. He goes on at length about Mr Shaw and his family, clearly fond of his employer. I can’t help but like him, strikes me as a good sort, sweet and sincere. What’s
more, he doesn’t carry a weapon of any kind.

From what Phillip tells me, Mr Shaw seems like he will be a breath of fresh compared to my usual clients. When we enter the wrought-iron gates of the sprawling country estate, I’m charmed by what I see. Manicured gardens and well-kept grounds peppered with objects from bygone eras: birdhouses and baths, trugs and gnomes. It’s kind of
cute, this penchant
for old things, antiquities abounding. It seems far removed from the modern world, frozen in time outside the city limits. We pull up to the front doors of a massive ivy-covered residence, and I realize how lonely it all feels despite the allure. The place appears unguarded, though I have no doubt there are multimillion-pound security systems in place. I think Phillip may be the only human inhabiting
these private acres.

Phillip opens the car door for me, but does not retrieve my bags from the trunk. With a beckoning hand he leads me into the manor. I follow him through the halls of the great house until we come to a cozy lounge with a long bar along one wall. On the floor, in the centre of the room, is an HG unit twice the size of the one I have at home. Phillip picks up a box from a side
table and opens the lid to reveal a row of Cohiba Esplendidos.

‘Would you care for a Cuban, Mr Rhodes?’

Most definitely, I tell him. Phillip cuts the ends of two, hands one to me and strikes a match. I lean into the flame, sucking on the cigar.

‘It’s still a challenge to get these in the States,’ I say, puffing thick smoke.

‘I know.’ Phillip grins and lights his. ‘It’s tragic really.’

I stroll
around the lounge, enjoying my smoke, taking in the peaceful air of the place.. Not a typical day on the job. I envy Clive for having had this client as a regular. The dull throb in my ribs soon reminds me of my other clients and my role.

‘Um, will Mr Shaw …?’

‘He will be with us in a moment,’ Phillip replies. ‘And he’s very much looking forward to meeting you.’

As if on cue, the HG unit activates.
It takes a few seconds to warm up before a three-dimensional body blooms in the centre of the room. The hologram is that of a man around Phillip’s age, bespectacled and smartly dressed in a maroon blazer. Shaw greets his butler with a warm smile and kind words before his eyes drift over to me.

‘Mr Rhodes, I presume,’ he says, and chuckles. ‘I’d shake your hand, but you know how it is.’

‘I know
how it is, Mr Shaw.’

‘Please, do sit down,’ he gestures to the chairs and sofas around the room. ‘Can I have Phillip get you anything? Coffee? Tea? A fine whisky maybe?’

‘Whisky,’ I say, remembering to dull my mind. ‘Definitely.’

‘Phillip, would you be so kind as to bring our guest something that would complement his Cohiba?’

‘I’ve got just the thing.’

Phillip goes to the bar and brings back
a whisky, neat. I take a sip and discover it’s even more enjoyable than Winslade’s cognac. Shaw watches me as I drink and smoke in turn, pleased that I’m pleased. I notice when his smile begins to fade.

‘I must say I’m very saddened to hear about Clive.’

Suddenly the cigar and whisky don’t taste so good. ‘We all are, Mr Shaw.’

‘I’m told the Parisian police understand that he was, in fact, attacked
first.’

‘Yes and he will be pleading self-defence to that fact,’ I reply. ‘The law firm representing him is nothing short of the best. I’d say there’s a good chance he will be found not guilty.’

Shaw’s eyebrows rise. ‘And if so, will he be returning to work?’

‘I don’t think so. His face … his face was too …’

The eyebrows lower. ‘How bad were his injuries?’

‘Bad.’

‘Surely some reconstructive
surgery is not out of the question?’

‘It won’t be the same …
he
won’t be the same. Plastic surgery doesn’t constitute perfection, Mr Shaw. That’s what our clients pay for.’

Shaw shakes his head. ‘As I told your boss, Baxter, I would be more than happy to hire him regardless. He was a positively wonderful rental.’

‘That’s very kind of you, but a Husk can’t get by with just one client, and others
won’t share your point of view.’

Not the answer Shaw wants to hear. After a pause he accepts the reality of the situation with a grave nod. His eyes look into mine, or at least I think they do. I wonder if he actually sees out of them and, if so, how.

‘A pity,’ he says.

I take another drag on my Cohiba and chase it with whisky. A cigar suddenly materializes in the hologram’s hand. Shaw raises
it, looks at it with a wry smile, then holds it to his lips and takes a puff. The graphic of smoke he exhales doesn’t drift very far. I’m sure I see it become pixilated. Shaw sighs.

‘Not nearly the same.’

Phillip seems saddened by the sight. I get the sense that these two men, despite being employer and employee, shared many a drink and smoke over the years in this very room. I finish my whisky
in another two gulps.

‘I’m ready if you are, Mr Shaw.’

‘Indeed, Mr Rhodes. Please have a seat.’

I settle into an overstuffed armchair near the HG and take out my Liaison. The Husk program boots up, cycling algorithms. Shaw gives Phillip a nod, sending the butler to the bar, where he fixes himself two more drinks, one for him and one for my client, who is minutes away from having a mouth again.
I plug one data cable into a jack on the HG unit and carefully inspect the proboscis on the other.

‘May I ask your intentions?’

Shaw shrugs and smiles. ‘I can give you my whole itinerary if you’d like.’

‘The Cliff’s Notes will be fine.’

‘Basically, I’ll be spending this afternoon with my grandchildren, posing as their new tennis instructor. Tomorrow and the next day, I’ll be looking after
my wife at the Carrington Nursing Home.’

The look I give Shaw amuses him. I don’t know what I expected him to say, but I didn’t expect that.

‘Seriously?’ I ask with a smirk.

‘Perfectly serious,’ he replies. ‘Is there a problem?’

‘No. It’s just that I thought … I thought you’d …’

Shaw is the one who smirks now. ‘You thought I’d be booked for some skydiving or rally car racing? An orgy perhaps,
with prostitutes and platters of cocaine?’

Phillip guffaws, spilling his drink a little, turning Shaw’s smirk into an amused grin. I can’t help but blush as I insert the proboscis into my Ouija.

‘No, Mr Rhodes,’ Shaw says, gesturing to the cigar still in my hand. ‘After life has ended, all some of us want is just a little taste of it now and again.’

For the first time I don’t dream. Somehow, in my unconscious state, I recognize the absence of it. It strikes me as odd. My lucid dreams often serve as crude yardsticks of my Husking. I don’t –
can’t
– remember any of the sessions I’m hired for. I can only
remember the dreams I had when I was under. What passes for my usual dormancy is an indefinable block of lost time, duration unknown. Could have been minutes, could have been months. There is nothing, except this thought that I know I’m experiencing nothing. This awareness of what is missing is alien to me, consciousness in an utter dead zone with almost nothing to contemplate. If I didn’t know
better, I’d say I was at peace.

Suddenly, I’m brought back to life, emerging into myself as the newfound residue of foreign cognition starts to slip from my brain. Soon the squatter is gone, leaving out the back door as I enter the front, vacating my head for only me. It takes a little longer than usual to come to my senses. My eyes are returned to me first, vision blurry. Shaw’s hologram stands
before me as I sit, talking apparently. Not sure if he’s speaking to me or someone else. Can’t understand a word he’s saying. Computing my surroundings feels like a chore, though I start to recognize the cigar lounge. I try to say something, but
my mouth won’t do as it’s told. Only two words come to mind.

Brain damage.

Phillip leans over me and holds a fist under my nose, pressing the webbing
of his thumb to my nostril. I inhale smelling salts off his skin, snap awake, look up at the hologram. The 3D image is not a bespectacled old man any more. The head has red hair and a thin face. The eyes looking back at me are green and angry.

‘What –’

I blink and Dennis Delane is gone, the image of Shaw standing in his place. My shudder is involuntary, drawing the attention of my client and
his butler. I see the unease on both of their faces.

‘How are you feeling, Mr Rhodes?’ asks Phillip, his pitch high with nervousness.

‘Not sure,’ I say, wiggling fingers and toes.

‘You seemed to have considerable trouble returning to us.’

I try to rise from the overstuffed chair I’m in, but the connected proboscis tugs at the side of my head, keeping me anchored.

‘Here,’ Phillip says, reaching
toward my Ouija. ‘Let me help you.’

I flinch and pull away. ‘I got it, thanks.’

Phillip backs away, hands held up in apology. An awkward stand-off follows, everyone frozen for a few moments, unsure of how to proceed. I disconnect the proboscis and gather enough of my own thoughts to realize the prospect of brain damage is growing unlikely. Despite the
grogginess, my body feels surprisingly good,
well-rested and respected. This experience is new to me.

‘How did everything go?’ I ask.

Shaw pauses. ‘To be honest, Mr Rhodes, I think I preferred Clive.’

‘Why? What happened?’

‘Nothing happened. Either you don’t suit me, or I just don’t wear you very well.’

Clients can have any number of reasons why they don’t think a Husk is suitable for them. I’m not buying Shaw’s, however. I’ve never
asked much of my clients in the past, but I press for some answers.

‘Something must have happened,’ I snap. ‘Spit it out.’

My curtness surprises even me. Shaw and Phillip exchange a glance that I don’t particularly like. I turn my attention to Phillip, wondering if he might spill something. The butler is well trained, knows his place in matters such as this. He purses his lips and wanders off
to the bar, where he fixes a drink, leaving me to face Shaw alone. The hologram takes off his spectacles and cleans them with a handkerchief.

‘What happened was I spent all of yesterday looking after my beloved wife, just like I told you I would …’

‘How is she?’

‘She’s old, Mr Rhodes, and probably doesn’t have much time left on this earth. My wife is one of the few people who knows I’m dead,
unlike my company’s board members and stockholders, whom I no longer meet in the flesh. Despite my best efforts, she has expressly wished not to join me in this so-called afterlife. I still try and sell
her this snake oil though, because I miss her terribly and can’t bear the thought of her gone. Yesterday, I found myself losing patience with her, something I have never done before. If I didn’t
know better, I’d say you were rubbing off on me.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I sensed something pushing back while we were in session, felt as if there were echoes of you in there coming out.’

Not of me
, I think, but say nothing.

‘I’ll wager I’m not like most of your other clients, Mr Rhodes.’

‘No, you’re not.’

Shaw replaces his glasses and the cigar materializes in his hand once again. He raises
it, turns it in his fingers, analysing the image with disappointment, if not outright distaste. His sensing of someone twice removed, a seed within a shell, a dream within a dream, has me worried.

‘I know this isn’t real,’ he says, wagging the cigar at me. ‘I’m cheating myself at the end of the day, but I’m no fool.’

My response seems ruder than intended. ‘What are you then?’

‘I’m scared, Mr
Rhodes.’

‘Scared of what?’

‘For starters … a man like
you
.’

‘Me?’ I say. ‘You don’t know anything about me.’

‘And that makes you all the more frightening.’

Phillip comes back from the bar and hands me a glass of Scotch, his intuition correct. I grab for it gleefully. Shaw watches as I gulp it down in one go.

‘You see, Mr Rhodes, it’s the little things in life I’ve always loved; a good book,
a decent cigar, a respectable Scotch. My personal favourite is a good night’s sleep and a long lie-in.’

‘I was wondering why I feel so well-rested,’ I say, forcing a smile.

Shaw does not smile back. ‘There was no good night’s sleep with you, Mr Rhodes. I can assure you.’

‘Pardon?’

‘In all my living days, I never had nightmares like the ones I had the past two nights while in session with you.’

His words bore into my gut, hollow it out. Shaw is the only client I’ve had that has used me like a decent human being and because of it I somehow feel exposed, naked, on trial for crimes I haven’t committed. This man has caught wind of the nest of worms writhing in my head and he doesn’t like it. I don’t like it either.

‘Nightmares? Of what?’

‘I wish I could tell you,’ Shaw replies. ‘I can’t
remember a single detail, only the awful panic and anxiety they left me with. Whatever dreams may have come, they were the most terrifying things I’ve experienced in a long while.’

Shaw leans forward, fingers stroking his chin, holographic eyes narrowing to slits behind his glasses as he stares at my hairline.

‘Just what on earth is going on up there, young man?’

‘Goddamn Winslade.’

I don’t
know why I muttered Winslade’s name exactly, just felt like the right person to bitch at in the moment, the right guy to blame. Mr Shaw’s hologram straightens
suddenly, brows creased with concern, a new interest in his eyes.

‘Mr Rhodes, I believe you just mentioned the name
Winslade
.’

‘No, I didn’t,’ I say.

‘Let me clarify,’ Shaw replies, his eyes scanning back and forth. ‘I’ve just reviewed
the recording, and you did, in fact, say
Winslade
.’

‘So?’

‘This wouldn’t be Wilhelm Winslade, would it?’

I swallow hard. ‘What does it matter?’

‘Is he one of Solace Strategies’ clients? Is he a client of yours?’

I start to rise from my chair. ‘Sorry, Mr Shaw, I’m not at liberty to discuss the company’s confidential –’

‘Sit
down.
’

Shaw’s anger catches both Phillip and me off guard. I drop
back down in the armchair and grip my knees nervously, feeling like a child in trouble. Shaw sees this and his demeanour softens.

‘I’m sorry. Please, answer the question.’

‘Yes, Mr Winslade is a client of Solace, and a client of mine.’

He seems disappointed by my answer. Phillip looks absolutely horrified by it. Silence descends. After a few moments Shaw gives Phillip a certain look. The butler
interprets it correctly, takes his drink and leaves the lounge, shutting the door behind him. I feel abandoned. For some reason I want another living, breathing human being in close proximity as I’m forced to talk to this ghost in the machine.

‘Do you believe in God, Mr Rhodes?’ Shaw asks.

‘I’m not sure,’ I reply, growing uncomfortable. ‘Do you?’

‘Yes, but, more importantly, a man like Winslade
doesn’t. If anything, he believes he is a god among men.’

‘I get that impression from him.’

Shaw hesitates, collecting his thoughts. He stares at the bar, licking his lips, no doubt wishing he could have a stiff drink. As more and more seconds go by it becomes evident that he is lost in these thoughts.

‘When did you start?’ I ask, breaking the silence.

Shaw looks up. ‘Start what?’

‘Believing
in God.’

‘Oh, after I died.’

God talk makes me feel either annoyed or anxious, a reflection of how I wrestle with the idea on a regular basis. I don’t know where Shaw’s going with this, and I don’t much care, but I decide to play along.

‘I’ve always wanted to believe,’ I say. ‘Asked for some kind of revelation plenty of times, but never got a thing in return.’

Shaw chuckles. ‘You want God
to connect to you, but you’ve got it the wrong way around. It is you who must connect to it. A soul, like all life, is meant to grow. It has to expand, has to reach out and try and touch what lies beyond its grasp.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I lost that ability to grow. When I turned Post-Mortem I didn’t just digitize, Mr Rhodes, I dehumanized. When you do that, when you leave behind what
you once were, you finally understand what made being
human so special, so …
spiritual
, for lack of a better word. Tell me, have you ever picked a lock, Mr Rhodes?’

‘No … have you?’

‘Plenty,’ he says with a wry smile. ‘My first career, so to speak, was that of a common burglar. Post-war England had very few employment opportunities for young men leaving school. I made ends meet in my own foolish
ways for a while. Eventually I was nicked and detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure. The stretch inside gave me plenty of time to think and turn my life around.’

Like some lounge act magic trick, a flame forms on the tip of his index finger, which he puts to the tip of his hologram cigar.

‘I understand now that there are some answers you’re just not allowed to have when you’re alive. It’s the questions
that keep us moving, questions that make followers out of us.’

Shaw takes a long drag and then blows the smoke out into perfectly formed rings that simply erase themselves after drifting a few feet.

‘Faith is naturally elusive, Mr Rhodes, a gift that turns people into perpetual-motion machines. We chase our beliefs constantly, in religion, in science, in love and life, into the future. Faith
propels us forward as much as it holds us back. Everyone wants to be given the key, but that’s not how it works. It’s more like picking a lock. We’re all novices. You have to work at it, jimmying tumblers, applying correct pressure, setting teeth until it all happens to line up just right and suddenly click. But you can’t see what you’re working toward. That’s the rub. You can only
do your best
to feel it out. And you never know when it’s going to come together. You just keep trying until it does. For some it can be quick, others can spend a lifetime. Some never manage it at all.’

A key, the old kind with puzzle-piece teeth, materializes in Shaw’s hand. He looks it over with affection. I’m sure it is a replica that unlocked a special something at one time or other in his life. My mind
conjures up a picturesque cottage in the countryside where he and his wife might have spent summers together, a place where great memories were made. The thought is vivid and moving. I wonder if some residual recollection of Shaw’s has been provoked in my head.

‘It was only after I died that I realized,’ Shaw continues. ‘I finally had hold of that key. A key I could tell others about. The problem
is I think the door no longer exists for me. I have now become part of something woefully … unnatural. With the very same key I’ve locked myself out of that which was ready to welcome me, the next mystery so to speak. Instead, I’m trapped here. This uploaded consciousness we’re prone to calling immortality is not what I’d call an achievement. It’s more of a manufactured limbo, barely a pass mark
that allows things to continue with dismal mediocrity. I’m not sure how long I’ll stick with it, to be frank.’

‘Why?’

‘Because we’re not supposed to go on indefinitely,’ Shaw replies. ‘I know this now, but there are others who don’t believe it, won’t accept it.’

‘You mean Winslade?’

‘Wilhelm was a machine long before he was uploaded to one. I met him in the flesh many years ago in regard to
business ventures with our shared capital. He was no innovator, no entrepreneur. That man made his fortune in hostile takeovers, liquidations, forced mergers, whatever could mine the most profit. Typical of our breed. Our appetites can be limitless. Our horizons seem endless. Remember, Mr Rhodes, people like us could have anything we wanted in life … some of us still have that expectation, even
in death.’