Midnight Lamp (17 page)

I must accept what happened to me, and move on
.

The thought came into her head, dead straight, and the bathroom was a bathroom in California. It was all there, right into the corners. She looked up at the old cam-eye. Curse you, spying bastard, whoever you are. You can fuck off.

She knew it was wrong, but she didn’t care.

Harry told Ax he’d let the mysterious Committee (that they couldn’t meet) know how displeased Ax had been at being dragged to that crime scene. Oh, terrific, now the FBI will be offended and stop talking to us. But maybe Fiorinda was right, and they had to find their own answers. Allie set up an office for herself, and took over the diaries. Digital Artists said they must turn down approaches from the Counterculture (none came), or anything eco-activist, otherwise yes to everything. At least that was straightforward. Between calls she started building a database of megastars who might be regarded as ‘involved’: Aoxomoxoa’s previous contacts, then all the expats, then their new friends, and running a comparison with Rufus O’Niall’s resume: the public facts. Chilled by the secret history she saw between the lines, she wondered, was she looking for a monster or was she trying to save her friend’s sanity? She didn’t know.

Fiorinda went to see Puusi Meera.

Minions rushed to take the Rugrat, as she pulled up on the immaculate gravel sweep. The wheel rim shivered.
Be a good rat
, she murmured. Someone had told them all AI cars have individual personalities, that can’t be altered and can’t be got rid of. This one was a timorous beastie. Someone else had said they take on the personality of the current driver. Whoops. And they pick up your emotional state. Ouch.

The world was paper, and she was convinced her father’s carrion tool was fucking her, in another dimension, this very moment as she walked up the movie star’s plushy stairs, following a white-robed middle-aged minion-lady.

Since the screaming in the bathtub incident, she had more times when everything seemed real, but this was not a lucid interval…

She was delivered to a stiff, fussy living room: all carved, polished wood, embroidered runners, gold fringes, tassels with everything; a scent of rose incense and brass polish. She glanced back and saw what she knew she would see: a little shrine to Ganesh by the door. Look at that. I could be in Neasden! Tears rose, absurdly: what’s this? Can I be
homesick
?

A lady in rustling silk bustled towards her. Was it the next door neighbour who had once been kind to a friendless little girl? No, not Mrs Mohanjanee, Puusi Meera, idol of billions, one of the genuine post-modern megastars.

‘Ah! How lovely you look, Fiorinda! You should smile more often!’

‘I brought you a present.’

Puusi nodded briskly, and stripped off the wrapping.

‘Oooh! Huntlee-Palmers! The Pet Rabbit! Oh, that’s clever of you.’

Thank you, Allie.

Puusi had a huge collection of British Empire memorabilia, you could view some of it on her
Puusi At Home
website. She was specially keen on art-pictorial biscuit tins. ‘It’s from Reading Museum. It’s very rare. I asked the curator did they have anything that might interest you, and he sent this. I made the Shrewsbury biscuits myself, but the recipe’s authentic.’

‘Ah yes, Reading, location of the original Huntlee-Palmers factory.’ Puusi opened the tin, and frowned. ‘You enjoy coooking? I wish I had time to be a housewife. Never mind.’ The present and wrappings were handed to the white-robed attendant, with a rapid fire of instructions about tin-fumigation.

‘You understand Hindi?,’ Puusi asked, suspiciously.

‘Not…er, not at all.’

‘Good. I’m putting your movie on my show, did you hear? As a favour to Harry, he’s such a nice boy. The Puusi Meera show, which is just me, you know, going about my daily life, with an audience of more millions than you could believe. I fantasise that I visit England. I see all the changes, and meet Ax. I ask him why did he leave the path of his talent for politics, I welcome him back to the sacred craft, and we sing together…something devotional but funky. I
think
that’s how it goes, they never tell me all the details. My dream sequences are very influential. Come, sit by me.’

One wall of the homely room held ranks of screens. Puusi hopped onto a couch facing this array, tucked up her feet and arranged her silks. She patted the cushions beside her. Not a glance at the fly-eye: of course she knew her mark. Fiorinda sneaked a look, and spotted (among the movie news channels and CCTV from the house and estate) a skinny, sallow-faced girl in green shalwar-kameese, a silver veil over her hair; a meagre little stick beside the opulent, exquisite star.

‘My staff are my family,’ said Puusi, ‘It breaks my heart that I can’t have my husband and children here with me. I visit as often as I can, though travel is so difficult—’

This must refer to the first husband, back in India. There’d been others.

‘Now, tell me about yourself. You were the singer who became queen of England, and then when Ax was taken hostage and the Rock Reich was toppled by the Green Nazis you were raped and tortured, thrown in jail, tried as a witch and put on the fire. How does it feel to have survived such things?’

The ruthless intrusions of movie-promotion were not getting Fiorinda down, because she’d found out how to deal with it; but she wasn’t going to risk cursing a goddess. However, Puusi, though I am a klutz at not getting raped, someone should have told you,
professionally
, I can take care of myself.

‘It feels like living in a house with bloodstains on the walls,’ she said, with grave simplicity. ‘You scrub it all off, but the stains come back. You do that again and again, until you realise that the stains will
always
come back. You can’t leave, because the haunted house is your own body and mind. You have to become the kind of person who lives with bloodstains, and isn’t damaged by them; and it’s hard. But I’m learning.’

‘Ah! That’s very moving!’

For a second, Puusi wondered had she met her supplanter? There was box-office in this girl’s presence: her large grey eyes, her sorrowful clear voice. But happily, Fiorinda couldn’t be in the movies. She was
not
the queen, because not married, but as the consort of a Muslim prince she had no freedom. Also, Puusi had discerned instantly, at the Pergola party, something in Fiorinda that would repel the virtual avatar process. Something icebound and sealed up forever, in that house with the bloodstained walls.

‘But before you were queen you were the daughter of Rufus O’Niall, the rockstar, who seduced you when you were barely in your teens and left you pregnant with his baby; and who died last year. Do you still hate him?’

‘I feel I understand him better all the time.’

‘Good! Now tell me about Ax. What is it like to be the king of England’s girlfriend? He is such an interesting person, and such a great talent—’

Fiorinda had been prepared for anything, including
Puusi Has Strange Lesbian Encounter
. There are things that Puusi Meera can’t do, but girl on girl romps were easily within her divine range… She might have known she’d end up talking about Ax. But it was okay. It was fine, after the slight gaffe with the biscuits. They had chemistry. Their chat lasted about ten minutes, which she knew was a respectable length. Not live, so there’s no guarantee, but she thought she was on.

‘It’s been delightful,’ said Puusi. ‘I love intelligent conversation. I was sure we would be friends! Now I’m going to give
you
a present. Wait there!’

She returned bearing in her own hands a tikkal-work casket. ‘You should wear diamonds,’ she remarked, rifling the glittering contents. ‘Diamonds for your birthsign, you see I know everything: and for your colouring. Red hair, diamonds. Isn’t it extraordinary how little jewels cost? Look at these, a few thousand dollars, one wants them to be worth a king’s ransom. You don’t have pierced ears? I will arrange it for you, it doesn’t hurt the way they do it now. We will do lunch.’ She dimpled. ‘Do you know why the women in this town
do lunch
? It’s because everything you eat after four o’ clock in the afternoon will
make you fat
. That is infallible, it’s the only true diet trick.’

‘Oh,’ said Fiorinda.

‘Oh!,’ repeated Puusi, with a wise little smile, and touched her finger to the tip of Fiorinda’s nose. ‘Eating after midnight, of course, will make you
pregnant
. Isn’t that interesting! These, with the rubies, have clips. Let me look. Yes, very pretty.’

The fly-eye wall showed Fiorinda that gaunt, yellow girl, her appearance not greatly improved by two wonderful falls of icy white, mingled as if with drops of blood. She’d had diamonds of her own once. Sage had bought them for her. They’d gone, with everything else, during the Green Nazi occupation.

She remembered telling Chip,
be careful of anything that looks out of place
: removed the earrings carefully, and kissed them. ‘Bless you, Puusi. They’re lovely. You keep them for me, just for now.’

They did tv, they did interviews, they did chatrooms. They did parties, they did premieres. Harry announced he’d booked them for a supergroup live gig, for which Sage must create one of his Rivermead masques… The virtual avatar tests were supposed to be happening any day, and the paparazzi stake-out stayed on the bluff, unphased by a ghost cat, or by the running joke about Mr Preston not being allowed to play guitar, or the endless specious pretexts for song and dance routines; or even, on one occasion, a curiously youthful Mr Preston wandering around in his underwear playing ‘Staying Together For The Kids’, very loud, and singing very badly… Fascinated, they’d do a burst of
real
reality tv, planting jokes and disinformation, to see where they surfaced. But Hollywood must be some kind of quantum computer, because things that could only have come from the compromised surveillance turned up everywhere at once.

A set of freak storms rolled in, wildly hyped on the weather media. All their Sunset Cape neighbours packed up and fled. Puusi and Janelle moved off the Rosa and into a hotel, and pestered the English to do the same. The English (who had never met the neighbours anyway) dismissed the idea with scorn. We come from the Flood Countries, we’re not scared. The night the big one hit, Mr Preston scraped plates and stacked the dishwasher after dinner, grumbling bitterly.

‘I swear, Emilia, if she was
starvinginaconcentrationcamp
she’d spend an hour mushing her potato-peelings around her plate, and leave half of them hidden under her fork.’

‘Si, Seňor Ax,’ said the cook, swaying her bulk across the room with a tray of glasses. They’d hired Emilia from a local bulletin board, and let her organise the cleaners. The staff Ax’d fired had obviously been spies. Maybe Emilia herself was selling domestic secrets: but you have to stop somewhere, it gets ridiculous.

He decided he’d better walk her to her car. The Mission-style courtyard was roaring. The crimson bouganvillea that half-covered one wall struggled and leapt like a wild animal, the ten-foot palms in their pots had been cast down and were rolling about madly; debris from the shore whirled overhead, the sky was black.

‘It is the wrath of God, Senor Ax!’ cried the cook, hugging Ax’s arm, anchoring him, and perversely, he felt his spirits leap. To be alive in this wildness, to be battling with the storm that breaks the nations—

‘It’s magnificent!’ shouted Emilia, her eyes shining, and he knew his face was equally transfigured. Yeah, the wrath of God. We’re in for it. It’s magnificent.

‘Come back indoors!’ he yelled. ‘You’ll have to phone your family before the masts go down. You can’t drive in this. You’ll have to stay the night!’

Fiorinda stepped out of her shower (a responsible three minutes, and no screaming); rubbed her hair and let the towel fall. Puusi has a point. I have no breasts, I have no bum. I am not anorexic! I
like
food. It’s just… I take a couple of bites, and then it seems such a chore. Why did I bless her? Did she make me do it? Close up, you knew Puusi Meera was
considerably
older than she looked, but she bore none of the stigmata of surgical work, and she didn’t strike Fiorinda as the GM type. Maybe she just has great genes. But she’s a goddess, she certainly feeds on human flesh; is she the one? She tugged at her damp hair, wanting to tame it into a braid. The coconut-fibre mass ripped like tearing cloth, which gave her a queasy feeling. She wrapped her old gold and brown shawl over her nightdress and went out onto the gallery.

Ax was there, carrying a tub of ice cream and a spoon.

‘What are you doing with that?’

‘I’m not doing anything with it. You’re going to eat some.’

Sage came up from the Cactus Room, where he’d left the rest of the company, and found them ensconced on a ruby red Monroe sofa, passing the ice cream spoon between them while the tempest raged. ‘It
used
to be a disaster movie,’ Fiorinda was saying, ‘Now it’s a bogeyman thriller. Most of the cast will have to die horribly, one by one.’

‘Harry,’ suggested Ax, ‘He has shreddie written all over him. I think it’s my turn with that spoon, Ms Slater.’

‘In a minute. This is very good ice cream.’

‘Full fat, real sugar. Emilia knows where to find these traditional delicacies. Sorry, big cat, you can’t have any. What’s going on?’

‘Nothen’much. They’re doom surfing on the cable tv. I don’t want any.’

‘He’s too sophisticated to like chocolate ice cream,’ said Fiorinda, licking her sweet moustache. ‘It’s been a limitation on his erotic career.’

Ax put the tub aside. ‘Fiorinda, there’s something I want to say. It’s about that night at Tyller Pystri—’

‘
Don’t
!’ she whispered, in mortal dread. But she stayed where she was. Sage sat beside her, blue eyes calmly telling Ax, go ahead, it’ll be okay, both of them ready to back off
instantly
—

‘No, let me. I want to say I’m sorry, little cat. I don’t think I ever said I was sorry, and it’s been bothering me. I knew you weren’t really up for it. I wanted to prove I was a man again, that’s the stupid, embarrassing truth.’