chapter thirty-eight

“Norway”

A virus is a system that exists somewhere between an inorganic chemical and a living cell. It’s approximation to the processes common to all living things can only be approached by the penetration of an organism and by a parasitic and debilitating relationship with the host. It was for this reason that Frank had named his sequence of proteins, enzymes and some modified sections of RNA “Spong”. The thrilling thing about working outside of the nationally controlled academies of chemistry or biology was that you could be genuinely creative and take risks; massive risks.

Frank despised the conventions of academic scientific behaviour. He knew that in the first place this was because his father had brought his family up inside the Arctic Circle, rejecting all comforts of civilisation save for those he chose to create himself, and that maverick spirit was something he had from both nature and nurture. In the second place he despised conventional science because he had seen the finest minds prostitute themselves time after time to political agenda or commercial interests. He had always taken the view that both commerce and politics should pay for his services, and to date he had managed a long and lucrative series of lives by holding to that philosophy.

He moved to the balcony of his Manhattan penthouse and lit up a Lucky. He felt the rough smoke rip into his lungs and gently coughed. Here was another example of scientific prostitution: it was evident that tobacco smoke had a deleterious effect on the lungs and hence on the respiratory system. Of course it meant nothing to him; he could defeat a thousand cancers or cardiac arrests; but every day doctors were seen to be advocating the health benefits of tobacco and denying the harmful effects. Scientific whores, secreting their money and frustration as they watched the tumescent structure of the Stock Exchange spill its load of profit across the distended bellies of the tobacco companies.

The smoke glittered, rose and fell towards the seething dark core of Central Park. The fact was that now he was into his fourth phase of existence, he was able to make some comparative judgements; and he surely judged this life, in New York towards the end of the fifties as being in every respect superior to those phases he had experienced before. He had despised the hypocrisy of all societies in comparison to the frozen Eden of Edgeøya. Here, now, the driving muscle of industry, particularly chemical industry was balanced by a thriving aesthetic culture. Frank regarded himself as a renaissance man; Shakespeare, Leonardo and Copernicus were of his kind, though obviously not his equal, since they had succumbed to mortality. Here he could taste it all: wealth, science, art, immortality.

And sex. He ground the white butt into the granite floor, orange particles expiring on the jet plane. Jack and he were perfect; had been perfect. For lives he had remained aloof from the pathetic attempts at gratification that drove those around him, and at last he had found an artistic soul that mirrored his. They were almost axial images of each other, even down to the hairline. Frank had considered giving Jack the gift of the nutriment and eternal, episodic life. Spong had destroyed that dream. Spong the hanger-on; Spong the one who had offered to prostitute himself for a cigarette in the dark park below only a few days ago. The virus was named for, and a gift for Spong.

America told itself that it retired early and set off for work before dawn. That may be true in Maine, but it certainly didn’t hold in Manhattan. Those that prowled the Jazz Clubs at two a.m. either slept in or rose to work fuelled by chemical stimulants. Seeking the stimulation of jazz rather than chemistry, Frank left the apartment and headed for the Village.

“There’s new, and there’s too new. That was just too new for me,”

“Well, it’s kind of interesting the way he uses the piano like eighty-eight tuned drums.”

“Eighty-eight un-tuned drums in my book. Give me Davis any day.”

“God, Seth, you Northerners just have to be so cool all the time.”

Frank stood back for the exodus of villagers and then descended the fifteen uneven steps into the miasma of coffee, bourbon and weed that was the living atmosphere of the club. Taylor was one of his favourites; tight, percussive and unexpected, rather like himself. He settled into a table away from the band, behind a wood and glass partition. The notes; piano drum and trumpet came over the physical wall in waves, each of which calmed his arctic soul. It was only once calmed by this and vodka that he began to recognise words and accent. Spong was here with a woman.

“...fantastic. Andy just filmed us doing anything!”

“What do you mean, Bennett? What’s anything?”

“Like, just anything! He filmed me giving head.”

“What did Jack think of that?”

“He loved it. He say’s I’m to head what Warhol is to tomato soup. I make it art!”

“Oh God, I wish I could wrote that in the New Yorker, but my editor would fire me straight out.”

Frank took a long pull on his vodka and tapped out a Lucky. He knew exactly who this woman was: one of the most influential art critics in town; only Greenberg’s opinions carried more weight than hers, and that balance was swinging in her favour.

“You know that Norwegian that Jack was knocking around with; Frank something?”

“Yes, he does perfumes. I have some. They’re great.” The notes cascading from the piano fought equilibrium battles with the drums in the thickened air. It was beautiful, but Frank could only hear the damning conversation.

“Well Jack says there are two kind s of head: I do it the best way and Frank did it the Gnaw way! He said he had sores on his dick for weeks. Norway, Gnaw way: get it?” The critic coughed laughter into her martini. Frank carefully rose from his table and left the bar. Spong was already dead.

chapter thirty-seven

Taylors Hill

Kay’s mother’s form was framed by the reception hatch, her black raincoat and matching wide brimmed hat, already slightly dated, but purchased from Harrods so therefore to be worn at any hint of precipitation. Kay let her gaze flutter over the comics and infantile crayonings on the coffee table. She noticed a paperback amongst the copies of Beano and Bunty and extracted it: “The Voyage of the Dawn Treader”. Comforting, but read at least twice already. She felt like Eustace, imprisoned in a monstrous body for doing something of which she was unaware, and she supposed she felt a certain hope that this clinic might help her in some way. Pages flew from the table as her mother settled onto the undersized seat beside her.

“The doctor is sending his nurse down to collect us. How are you feeling now?”

Kay’s eyes met her mother’s, which tried to flicker away, but then, through an effort of will, returned, almost nervous, as if she were the child and Kay the adult. “I’m hopeful,” said Kay, with little conviction. To the relief of both the nurse arrived, the uniform like the dragon’s skin, concealing the person within, producing a function alone.

They ascended the wide staircase, which may once have been almost stately, the windows on the Western walls giving increasingly panoramic views of Salt Hill; the church tower, the amusement arcades and the sea beyond; even the faint humps of the Aran Islands. “The doctor would prefer to talk to you first,” said the nurse, addressing Kay’s mother. “Kay can wait here,” and she indicated a long bench with another coffee table, this time loaded not with comics and drawings by children, but with medical journals and copies of National Geographic Magazine. This was much better. Kay settled to an account of a sailing trip around the Arctic Sea while her mother entered the office. She was examining a grey photograph showing a hill on the Island of Edgeøya when the sub-zero temperature seemed to ooze out of the page and squeeze her heart. It was an anxiety threatening to spill over into blind terror.

The voices came from within, one calm, male yet light, accented strangely, doing most of the talking; her mother almost whispering, far from her normal strident, gin-tinged overconfidence. The voices were from within both the room and Kay’s own head; so deeply within that they had almost no objective claim on reality, but she listened, freezing.

“..that these dreams, well, they are always nightmares, are taking over her life completely.”

“Such dreams do have the power to do this; to send your daughter mad. Freud has written much on this as you may be aware. In fact it is probable that your daughter is already mad, in a clinical sense; but do not despair, Mrs Macnamara; it is for this reason that the Taylor’s Hill Centre exists. I am sure my colleagues and I will be able to halt this distressing slide into the abyss and restore to you the lively, happy girl you once knew.”

“I’m not sure I ever did know Kay as that, but it would be wonderful. My husband and I are so worried.”

“I must warn you that sometimes the idea of admission to such a hospital facility as this can upset a person, especially a child of only nine years. She may even lash out or make ridiculous claims, so my nurse will sedate her if this should happen. You don’t have to be here if that would upset you.”

“I think I’ll be alright... Do you want to see her now?”

The door opened and the nurse presented an empty functional smile and led her into the office. Three tall windows filled the wall behind the desk and Kay was dazzled by the assault of light. The thin figure of the doctor coalesced from the brightness, assuming breadth and detail. It was at that moment that she burst like a cloud, flinging herself at the desk in an effort to attack before it was too late, but it was already far too late. Frank smiled as he watched her mother hold her down while the nurse administered the sedative. The treatment had begun.

chapter thirty-six

An Easter Offering

The large glass sphere wobbled slightly as Frank opened the tap that allowed the vaporous product of two exotic and modified volatile liquids to rise into the condenser that fed it. Gentle heat would now promote an equilibrium reaction, the results of which could be harvested to provide the raw material of the bone gas. The addition of Sulphuric Acid to this in the presence of oxygen initiated the action of the gas; its rapid expansion into the atmosphere and penetration of the flesh of the victims. Frank had designed the gas so that breathing it resulted in a relatively quick “death”, if one could refer to the state of being without bones “death”. Actual death was caused by suffocation primarily, since the lungs had no rigid chamber within which to expand and contract. Breathing in gave the gas ready access to the capillaries in the mouth, and then the lungs and thus the effect was rapid. In order to give the user of the gas a measure of protection Frank had designed it so that it penetrated the epidermis more slowly. It was thus possible to use the gas as an offensive weapon in close combat as long as one could make a retreat before taking a breath.

He let his left first and second fingers rest against the large sphere for five seconds to gauge the temperature, a trick he had learnt from his mother in regard to cooking, and to Frank this chemical process, although more dangerous, was no less a matter of art and subjective judgement. The bubbles began to rise in the liquid, which was now attaining the required chrome green colour, so he began to run cold water through the Liebig condenser in preparation for the collection of the raw gas in a series of large and very thick glass cylinders. His attention was broken by the sound of the outer door to the laboratory being pushed open and Professor O’Connell’s rather tuneless and wordless singing.

“Good afternoon Mr Kørner. What a beautiful day: Good Friday, the tragic death of our Lord, but a temporary death that led to salvation for us all. I have just attended a splendid performance of sacred music by Handel in St. Patrick’s Cathedral, and I must say it has enabled me to put all this talk of spies and compromise behind me. With your gas we are assured of victory over the English oppressors, and so I am going to press Pearse and Connolly to go ahead. This is indeed the dark vigil before the rebirth; the rebirth of our Lord and the rebirth of our people!”

“I am glad that my contribution will be so decisive. I can assure you that, used correctly, the effects will be exactly as I described to the committee.”

“And we will owe you a debt of gratitude Mr Kørner,” and here the professor paused for a moment to remove his heavy tweed coat, “although it will have to be expressed tacitly, I have found that de Valera has made commitments to the bishops in regard to our constitution that may make your position.... difficult.”

“In what respect?” asked Frank, hardly noticing the words, but sensing the weight behind them, as he followed the progress of the tiny green drops into the collecting jar.

“The bishops, and of course the people, bear a great deal of resentment towards the English in regard to their suppression, some might go so far as to say, attempted destruction, of our faith and language. De Valera tells us that this resentment will help unify the people behind our cause, and no doubt it will, but the bishops have made certain demands.”

Frank slid a weighty glass disc over the first collecting cylinder and rapidly positioned the next. He wondered for a moment if the fact that the gas was a little heavier than air was an advantage or a disadvantage before turning to make a greater engagement with the professor.

“What kind of demands can the bishops make of a government that does not even exist?” he enquired. “They can hardly make attendance at church compulsory, that would be as bad as the controls on liberty that you are striving to remove!”

“Not in the view of the bishops, and neither in the view of de Valera, I am told.” The professor sat and withdrew his battered pipe. “State and church will be as one. This means that your particular affections will not be tolerated. The role of the male is to head the family and father children; Catholic, Irish-speaking children. Mr Kørner, I am sure you are aware of the distaste I have for the unnatural acts in which you indulge; but I feel that this proposed unity of church and state may not lead to the liberty of our people that most of the committee so strongly desire.”

Frank smiled gently, and considered the countless acts of debauchery he had witnessed in Paris. Catholic bishops had been amongst the most enthusiastic participants in these dazzling exhibitions. The hypocrisy had always been there, but to found a nation on such hypocrisy was more than he was prepared to countenance. He smiled again.

“Do not concern yourself, professor. The important thing is that the rising is both swift and decisive, is it not?”

“Yes, yes; of course. The rest is politics.”

“In God, we trust,” said Frank, as he removed the Sulphuric Acid from the bench. His bone gas would take no part in the establishment of such a state; besides, by tomorrow O’Connell would be dead and he would be on his way to the Arctic Circle with the Irishman’s cerebral foam safely packed for the transfer.

chapter thirty-five

William Hill

It had been at some stage after leaving the gallery and before turning the corner from the Convent Road into Ashfield that Kay had sensed Frank’s presence. She felt it as an infection in the air that penetrated her lungs and the lymph system. She stopped for a moment and placed both palms, crossed, over her heart and then let her second fingers run forward to her eyebrows from each temple. There was no point in turning back: since Frank was here already there was nowhere to go. It was odd, because although she knew she had killed him, she still felt terrified at the prospect of meeting him. This was not irrational of course. He could, and probably would try to harm her, but it was the legacy of the decade and more of psychological control and chemical abuse that really fed her terror. She looked up into the night sky, now clear of the heavy clouds that had dulled the day, and heard the freezing moisture crack underfoot.

Reality echoed that rupture as she crunched the new-born ice all the way to Trisha’s front door. By the time she stood before the door she was empty of self and so ready for Frank. She pushed the door into the caesura between the streetlight and the icy radiance from the garden that crept into the kitchen and studio. She waited to smell Frank, lurking with some antique weapon; his sweat, his American aftershave, his corrupt cells, but that presence, the quick and the dead of Frank, was absent. She closed her eyes and the after image of the studio remained and began to take shape, and at the same time there was a scent of Frank too, a strange, almost gluey scent. She identified the scent as his come at the same time as her retina made out the body surrounded by the one hundred and forty four plaster cast elves.

She squatted down in the dark beside the ritual circle and considered the black hole in the chest that was the origin, here still encrusted with the plastic crimson of her friend’s blood. Frank had always held himself aloof from her father’s cannibalistic perversions, so he had done this simply to communicate something. She picked up one of the cast models of Douglas. Why the circle? Why on earth had Frank bothered to carefully make this circle of sightless figures face towards the site of his mutilation?

She heard something as if in reply to her thoughts: the thumping of bare feet on colder earth, and an unintelligible incantation in vowel rich words. She sensed a distance and a place in Northern latitudes, and an equivalent distance in time. God, she was getting too close to Frank. This was nonsense.

She stood abruptly and hit the light switch, turning away from the body. She shut out the connection to Frank and squeezed the little model in her hand to confirm herself in the present. This was her business now, selling pictures to tourists and models to children. She let the words cross: “pictures to children and models to tourists”. And then she had it. Frank wanted her to find him, and this was the reason for the circle. She had sold one model to a tourist a couple of weeks ago, and that had been to a German sculptor, living in Dublin, who had left her card at the gallery.

Ten minutes later she had the card from the desk in the Blue Gamp Gallery and made the call. She described Frank to the sculptor.

“He came down here looking for more elves, but I missed him,” she said.

“I know him to see,” replied the sculptor, and then to those around her “Did any of you see Frank recently?” Kay could make out a buzz of conversation and the thump of salsa music, then the German voice returned.

“Pat spoke to him a couple of days ago. Here, I’ll put him on the line.”

“Howya? That Frank, he is a crazy character alright. He told me he’s going to visit a brother in London, Forest Hills I think he said, but I don’t have an address exactly.”

“Thanks, you’re a star,” said Kay. “If you are talking to him, tell him Kay is looking for him; here’s my number...”

After disconnecting, Kay searched Forest Hills on the internet, and quickly discovered the area was actually called Forest Hill. But how to find Frank? She had to be careful; he was leading her in some way, and his murderous intent was clear. Frank needed to be in control; he never gambled.

Twenty four hours later she had a job organised for herself in the safest place in Forest Hill; a bookmakers called William Hill on Devonshire Road.

chapter thirty-four

The Chateau

A scarf of almost black cypress rested, infinitely comforting, behind the long chain of magnolia. Late March had begun to warm the breeze that fluttered the silvery curtains in the French windows opening onto the terrace from Frank’s study. A dining table capable of seating thirty had been commandeered to provide the surface upon which the samples grew in the nutriment. The viscous liquid shivered slightly in the flood of air caused by the opening of the door. Several papers whirled to the carpet, obscuring a Persian courtesan and most of a fig tree. A white hand, fingers heavy with gold and chrysoprase, gathered the pages but did not return them to the desk. The princess took advantage of Frank’s absence providing fresh supplies of his perfumes to the ladies and gentlemen of the capital to examine the progress of his work.

The notes were kept in Norwegian; the headings Katt, Due, Rev, Hare and Rotte easy to interpret due to the accompanying illustrations, obsessively detailed and marked with tiny measurements. The current reality of the subjects was also available for direct inspection in the five tanks, likewise labelled, that occupied the table. The princess dipped her finger into Katt and spun the pale body gently. Hair was developing now and beginning to display the faintest hit of orange. Indeed she had already noticed the word amongst the recent observations on Katt, standing out due to it being identical to the French. Passing the table the princess stepped onto the terrace and unconsciously ran her hand over the pearls, triple strung on silver thread; from neck to breast and below, exactly as her eyes caressed the magnolia on the rising hills.

The animate twins to the samples were kept in cages nestling against the south wall. She sat before the marmalade cat and felt the feline gaze on her face. “Tu m’apporteras une belle fille?” she murmured. The cat purred encouragement. Due, its neighbour, beat its wings upon hearing the voice of the predator. Knowing herself to be compromising scientific principles, the princess opened the cage and took the cat into her arms, rocking it softly, as if it were the beautiful daughter she craved.

“I would be grateful if you would carefully recage the cat, Cleїs.”

She had not heard Frank approach, mounting the steps to the terrace from the orchard. He knelt beside her and held the portcullis as the animal was rather unwillingly returned to its home. Standing, it seemed to her that the removal of the marmalade cat had taken most of the colour out of the world. They were both pale following the winter, and the stone of the terrace was delicately shaded with blanched ash. “Progress, Frank?”

“I will arrive at a singularly important stage of the work this Sunday, Cleїs. If successful I will be able to assure you of the gratification of your desire, and the final stage can begin.” He held her hand for a second, and then walked into the study. With his back to her he opened a drawer and took out a cameo brooch. “In fact your friend the cat is central to the enterprise. Allow me to demonstrate.” The princess sat on a chaise-longue while Frank briskly repaired to the terrace and returned with the cat. “I have been training this animal to respond to a particular stimulus in a way unique to her among all cats. Observe!” He set the cat in the centre of the floor. It surveyed the room and noticed the princess. At this point Frank revealed the cameo, and at once the cat curled itself into a comfortable ball and slept.

“I don’t understand. Why is this sleeping response, although interesting, vital to our enterprise?” asked the princess, stroking the orange fur.

“Because, Cleїs, the physical aspect to creating your daughter is not the main problem I have encountered; rather it is what Marulić terms the psychological dimension that frustrates us. The creation of another self to continue the estate and live by the same values that occupy you requires the reproduction of the souls in addition to the cells.”

“But surely this is impossible, are not all living creatures individuals? Even twins have independent thought.” The princess lifted the cat onto her lap. It shifted slightly in the grey silk but continued to sleep.

“Independent thought indeed, but I believe that certain characteristics of the thoughts of twins show a degree of shared inherited memory. I am working on a method of enabling this in a created daughter. I, and I believe you, want her to share your memories.” Frank placed his hands upon the cat. “May I?” He removed it from her lap and carried it out to the cage. The princess stood and looked into the tank containing Katt. The marmalade colouring was more marked than before; the hair longer, as if the floating body were coming into focus, cohering in the moment; attaining some point after which everything would be utterly changed.

chapter thirty three

Eintritt In Den Wald

Mühsam poured strong coffee into small glasses. He stirred two generous spoons of sugar into one and raised an eyebrow towards Frank, his hand poised, the silver spoon trembling over the sugar pot. Frank wondered at the professional discipline that enabled the doctor to banish the effects of Parkinson’s disease when in theatre. The disease was progressive, so it would not be long before Mühsam would be forced to retire from surgery. Frank wondered what the other man had planned for his declining years as he waved away the offered sugar.

“I intend to write a definitive guide to the flora of the Black Forest,” said Mühsam. “I have a lodge there. And listen to Strauss.”

“I don’t follow you, doctor.”

“We are both intelligent men, Herr Kørner. It is clear that my days as a surgeon are numbered. One day your eyesight will fade, or your cognition will be impaired. You are a young man still, you appear to be in your late thirties; but we all age. How will you confront the inevitable evening of life?”

“It is not an issue I have ever thought about,” Frank lied. He visualised his developing twin body; the ridge covered in permafrost that loomed over the entrance to the cavern, the black pool of nutriment, the white empty body, the silence. This was his insurance against the evening of life, but he needed to win the approval of Mühsam and his superiors if he were to gain the freedom to leave the prison camp and make his way to Svalbard.

“I have rather been considering my task here. I believe I can develop a method of influencing the development of individuals in the womb that will have the effect you require.”

Mühsam took a loud suck of coffee. “You will be able to eliminate mental and sexual degeneracy? This is exactly what we desire. I have a list of a dozen respectable parents; eminent party members, who are keenly, even desperately, waiting for this to be possible.”

Frank tapped the rim of his glass, as if struggling with some inner turmoil. “Certain mental defects are already visible to me when I examine a cell. In this respect however, I must point out that there are very many forms of idiocy. I doubt that I will be able to offer an infallible screening process. The creator may always find new ways of corrupting the perfection of his subjects.”

“I understand,” Mühsam stood and selected a 78rpm record from a shelf. “You are familiar with the Alpine Symphony, I presume?”

“A brilliant sound picture of the region,” replied Frank with some enthusiasm. “I am interested in cold landscapes, and enjoy the music they inspire in fine composers.” Mühsam wound the gramophone vigorously and settled the stylus into the black groove. Frank listened to the tinny orchestra for what he judged to be a respectable length of time. “I think that the case of sexual degeneracy will be far simpler; it is a single defect, but I need to carry out some research; some comparative research.”

“What do you require? I am sure we can requisition whatever is necessary.” Mühsam closed his eyes and turned his face towards the ceiling, shaking slightly as if the music were a breeze and he an Alpine Spruce.

“Subjects. I need to take samples from many homosexuals and non-homosexuals in order to make detailed comparisons of structures in the cells.”

Mühsam opened his eyes, shook off the music and smiled. “We have many homosexuals to hand, already imprisoned. Surely we can begin with those for your subjects?”

“You are no doubt aware that incarceration can lead quite normal men to commit acts amongst one another that they would find abhorrent in other circumstances. For my research to be truly scientific I need to be absolutely sure that my subjects are wholly decadent by inclination from infancy.”

“You make an excellent point Herr Kørner. How do you propose to guarantee scientific rigour in this respect?” Frank took a pack of cigarettes from his pockets and offered one to the doctor. He did not want to appear to be too rapid in making his next comment. Both men inhaled the rich tobacco, and frank picked some specks of it from his lips before uttering the decisive sentence.

“You are aware that I have a strong grounding in deviant psychology. I propose that we infiltrate the disgusting underworld of these people in order to identify completely authentic subjects. It will be an extremely unpleasant task.”

The doctor lifted the stylus from the record. He had turned it in his trembling hands but did not replace it on the turntable. “You know those…those devils nearly destroyed my reputation at the institute. I cannot afford to be compromised with regard to this issue again. You are the expert here. I suggest that you infiltrate their world, report to me, and I will arrange for them to be swiftly…. harvested, as you might say.”

Frank felt the cold air of Svalbard dissolving in his veins and at the same time his penis began to swell with the promise of the mission. He sat quickly to hide the physical response. “May we have more Strauss? This will not be easy.” Mühsam could never imagine the lascivious couplings that filled Frank’s thoughts as he once again allowed the Alpine breeze to overwhelm his fragile form.

chapter thirty-two

Drawings of Shoes

“See a shoe and pick it up and all day long you’ll have good luck,” struck Frank as being an absolutely infantile caption for the beautiful drawings of footwear that he was considering in the Bodely Gallery. Here he found crass consumerism and delight in form engaged in a mutually debasing act of desperate onanism. At least he was aware of the uses to which he was putting his bio-chemical artistry. He took a long draught of the fizzing champagne offered by the gallery and noted the pale image of the artist himself distorted in the base of the fluted glass as it emptied. Warhol was propping himself against a fire extinguisher and opening a pack of Luckies, his eyes down, avoiding contact. Frank felt the urge to talk to him, misanthrope to misanthrope, but then realised he had nothing to say.

“Isn’t this hot, hot, hot?” Spong tapped Frank on the ass and went directly to Warhol, offering him a Chesterfield. Frank watched the cigarette being accepted, Spong providing the light. He wondered what they were talking about and then dismissed the subject as he turned his attention to another image. Warhol was, like himself, a hot property amongst the ultra wealthy of New York, and it was hardly a duty to enjoy the graphic delights presented in the gallery.

Frank had purged all thoughts other than those of line, colour and composition when he felt another pinch on his left buttock. “He wants to film me! He has a film project; you could be in it too. Why don’t you chat to him?” Frank wanted to turn and put his father’s impossibly sharp rock probe through Spong’s chest, but instead smiled. “I might well do that. How’s Jack?”

“Jack is Jack. This is the new thing! Who cars about pictures of the flag any more? Shoes are the new flags, consumers are the modern Medicis. Wealthy or not; although we prefer wealthy of course,” said Spong, and he pinched Frank’s ass again. Frank took a deep breath and blew the carbon dioxide out upon his fingernails. Spong’s end would be slow, painful and humiliating.

Frank watched Warhol leave with Spong, but not before he had an invitation to the filming session. After meeting Spong in Central Park he had conceived of a terrible vengeance, and he now had forty eight hours to perfect it. He could no longer take in the drawings; his mouth was dry and his fingers shook, crumpling the cigarette before letting it fall into the ash tray. He ignored several of his most illustrious female clients as he made his way to the street and had no recollection of the short walk to his Manhattan apartment.

Focussing the microscope brought calm. Now he was operating on a biological scale; a chemical scale, hearing the same internal clock that had begun to tick in the cavern some eighty-eight years earlier. He looked at the cells, his own cells which he had placed in the nutriment a few days earlier and noted how they had already multiplied at an astonishing rate. The power of the nutriment to foster life and promote growth was always remarkable, but this time he was not interested in progressing life; that was a gift he had reserved always for himself. Right now he was interested in inhibiting the power of the nutriment, and he had a virus which he hoped would stop the inexorable vitality it contained, and leave cells open to any of the millions of pathogens which fill the natural world. He carefully introduced the virus to the culture; saw it large dark and initially spherical amongst his rapidly replicating cells. Quite soon, although he had no idea how much time had passed, he noticed filaments joining the healthy cells to the larger dark mass. He left his laboratory and went out onto the balcony, where New York had achieved a brief impression of peace before dawn.

From somewhere came a cry; female, and the rattle of sheet metal. He looked for the moon, and found instead the full yellow circle of a clock on a nearby office-block. He let the night absorb him and imagined several million human actors frozen in whatever small screams their existences at that moment, required. He lifted his gaze to the stars and found them few and distant and infinitely cold.