As usual the woman who opened the door was at the wrong end of middle age, mildly unkempt, her eyes shiny and blank with fresh loss. She was, Carter thought, a template for seventy, maybe eighty percent of his customers. He followed her through a shabby hallway into a bleak, bare living room. The house, too, was typical of most of the homes Carter visited these days; clinging to the thinnest thread of respectability, full of the stench of defeat and imminent ruin.

Carter stood by the sofa. The woman motioned for him to sit down. “I’ll stand,” he said.

She nodded. The collar of her cardigan was frayed and she tugged and fretted at the loose piece of wool. Carter wanted to slap her hand away. Wanted her to look him in the eye for once, to get to the point. Instead he forced a half smile and pointed at a photograph on the table next to her. “Is that your husband?”

She nodded again and looked at the bland, slightly blurred face in the picture, ran a hand across its surface.

“When did he die?”

“A week ago.”

Carter waited. Usually the details would come easily now, whether he asked for them or not. But the woman did not elaborate. She seemed lost in the past somewhere. It didn’t affect his work, how much, how little he knew. But there were conventions to observe. And Carter was mildly curious.

“How did he die?”

He expected one of the usual answers; maybe he was a conscript, killed on the Welsh border. Or he was shot by a sniper as he walked to work through the city centre. Or perhaps he was simply picked up by the Council and they went a little too far in the soundproofed cells beneath City Hall. She’d have a letter of apology somewhere and a small amount of compensation.

“He was ill for a long time. I nursed him for…two, three years? I don’t remember exactly.”

“Right,” Carter said, surprised. “That must have been…hard.”

She didn’t bother answering that and Carter didn’t really blame her. She started to pull at her collar again and said, “How much will this cost me?”

“A hundred and fifty euros.”

She looked him in the eye then and didn’t blink. “The Council would be cheaper.”

“I doubt it. I hear they charge nearer two hundred these days.”

“But I’d get a guarantee.”

“True. You’d probably get a mind probe, too. Do you want them poking around in all your little secrets? They don’t need much excuse to stop your benefits, pull you in for questioning.”

She thought for a moment, chewing her lip, her eyes turned inward. Carter shivered. He still had his coat on but it seemed colder in this dull little room than it had outside. He pulled a Palmtop from his coat pocket. “Do you want to see some testimonials?”

“You’ve probably rigged them,” she said wearily.

Of course he had. Web-time and live video links were virtually unobtainable these days. “Or I can just go. You can get through this the old fashioned way. I’ve heard it gets easier with time. A year or two and things will probably seem a whole lot brighter.”

She looked at him bleakly. “Do you seriously think any of us has that long?”

“Sure. Why not?”

She shook her head and almost laughed. “How does this work, anyway?”

“Search me. It just does. I need the money up front.”

She retrieved her purse from a deep pocket. She did everything slowly. Her face was the colour of weak tea, her eyes wet and accusing. Before she handed him the cash she said, “I won’t…forget him, will I? This feels a little like betrayal.”

“You won’t forget him. You just remember the good bits better, that’s all. I take the sting away. You’ll be able to sleep again, without dreaming. You’ll appreciate what you had.”

She nodded quickly and her eyes gained a little fervour. She gave him the money and glanced at him almost coyly. “What must I do? Should I take off my clothes?”

Jesus. Why did they always think that?

“No need for that. I hug you. That’s all.”

“You hug me? What good will that do? I want my money back.”

He sighed. They never believed it could be so easy. They always expected, even wanted, needles, pain, some degree of suffering. “Just do it,” Carter said.

“And if it doesn’t work?”

“Then you haven’t lost anything.”

“Apart from my money.”

“Well, yeah, apart from that.” He was across the room in two strides and he took her in his arms. She resisted but he pressed himself against her. She was so light, so insubstantial. And she smelt too, but Carter was used to that. He’d worn his own clothes for more than a week. He caught a trace of his odour occasionally and it made his eyes water.

Then she became soft, pliant, folded against him. And he felt the usual slow warmth and tasted something dark and bitter at the back of his throat. She murmured, ‘My God, my God,’ into his chest and he held her, stroked the top of her head, and felt something tender, something close to love. Even though he charged for this and although he didn’t actually give a shit, Carter was suddenly imbued with a tainted, accidental, sense of virtue.

She broke away from him. She looked instantly younger. “My God,” she said again. She grabbed the photograph and stroked it. Then she looked at Carter and her eyes were warm and bright. “Thank you.”

He gave a little shrug. He didn’t take a bow. “No problem,” he said. At least she’d been grateful. He hated it when they wouldn’t admit it. He’d see in their eyes and face that it had worked and they’d say, ‘I feel no different. I want my money back.’

‘Fuck you,’ he’d say.

Now the woman was still thanking him. “Good,” he said. “Now I’ve got to go.”

“Stay,” she said. “I have some tea. No milk, though. But still. Stay for a while.”

And there it was. The usual invitation. It almost always came. Man, woman, young, old. And he almost always turned it down.

He headed for the door. “Sorry. Lots to do.”

“Come again,” she said, following him. “Any time.” He was at the door, out of it. “You don’t even know my name.” He was through the gate, onto the empty street. She was calling something to him but he hummed to himself so that he couldn’t hear.

 

 

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