through the mirror, during dinner, running for the train, then sitting grooming her dark-purple claws, painting her dark-purple lips darker. Where she got off it was raining, hard to read the wet ground and all those extra lights. Then – after a bit of praying, Mum finally put my cloth on – she was at the man’s house.
He was on the phone – for a long time, talking trash, two low-worth people talking together, further lowering both their selves. She waited, at first irritably, but then she went farther into the house, from room to room, looking at everything but not touching. He didn’t like that – when it was clear she hadn’t just gone to the bathroom he came out to the hall and frowned about, and when next he saw her he beckoned. She skipped away into the bathroom then, and while his voice and his pretend-laughter boomed in the hall she went piece by piece through the marvels of his bath-cabinet, touching and lifting only as much as she needed to, to see what was what.
There was a rustle of my cloth, then an eye, then the cloth again. ‘Yep,’ Ethan said. ‘Still admiring himself.’
‘Telling himself a bedtime story,’ said Taylor. ‘“Once upon a time there were three poor budgies, living in a forest.”’
By the time they’d got out of my tail-feathers Scarlet was back with the man, the phone was unplugged from the wall and the glassware was all laid out in its ceremonial array, the only clean thing in the house, kept that way so it wouldn’t contaminate the chemical.
Scarlet sat watching, luminous, her eyes beautiful with fear.
He loved that, the man. It gave him flourish. To be the knower, in front of such innocence and curiosity. He’d already done it with the sex; now he wanted to do it with the substances. He wanted to claim more and more, until she was hurt, and wept, until she was wrecked and ruined. She thought it was love, but he wouldn’t know love from a hole in the ground. He thought this was love, too, this wreckage. When it was complete, he would say she had spoiled the love, that he had brought it to her pure and she had fussed and spoiled it with her neediness.
‘Roll up your sleeve,’ he said, and handed her the tightener. ‘Put this on.’
I pecked at the simulacrum and we groomed ourselves, just quickly, just to make sure we were ready in every covert and pinion. Beyond my fellow there the work went on, with the flame and the precious dust and the injecting machine. Nothing spilled or was wasted. The man kept his temper; he didn’t loose a single dung-word. Scarlet stayed still and wide-eyed.
I sent the simulacrum down. It put chin to chest and dropped and spread and fluttered, onto Scarlet’s shoulder. It had a finer body than I; being invisible, it could afford to be ideal – there was no risk that it would dazzle and unhinge anyone.
Scarlet turned its way and searched the shadows behind her. The simulacrum breathed, and fanned its breath into her face.
‘Tighter!’ snapped the man.
Scarlet fumbled with the tightener. Bright droplets of the substance-juice sprang from the needle, curved on the air – apparently it was all right to waste just this little, to make this little libation.
Taylor had trained Smoko to sit on his finger. He had carried him around, finger to shoulder to finger.
He sat at the computer and the bird sat with him.
He brought Smoko in to Scarlet’s room where she was studying. She looked up scowling, but the scowl cleared when she saw the bird. ‘Will he come to me?’ she said.
‘He’ll come to anything that bumps him in the chest,’ said Taylor.
Scarlet touched the breast feathers with her knuckle and up Smoko stepped.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘His feet are warm !’
‘Well, look at them; they’re so pink, they’d have to be.’
She laughed carefully, through her nose. ‘I don’t know. I expected them to be cold and scratchy. Like a reptile’s. To hurt ! But yes, you’re toasty, aren’t you?’
Smoko sat in a gentle
He was on the phone – for a long time, talking trash, two low-worth people talking together, further lowering both their selves. She waited, at first irritably, but then she went farther into the house, from room to room, looking at everything but not touching. He didn’t like that – when it was clear she hadn’t just gone to the bathroom he came out to the hall and frowned about, and when next he saw her he beckoned. She skipped away into the bathroom then, and while his voice and his pretend-laughter boomed in the hall she went piece by piece through the marvels of his bath-cabinet, touching and lifting only as much as she needed to, to see what was what.
There was a rustle of my cloth, then an eye, then the cloth again. ‘Yep,’ Ethan said. ‘Still admiring himself.’
‘Telling himself a bedtime story,’ said Taylor. ‘“Once upon a time there were three poor budgies, living in a forest.”’
By the time they’d got out of my tail-feathers Scarlet was back with the man, the phone was unplugged from the wall and the glassware was all laid out in its ceremonial array, the only clean thing in the house, kept that way so it wouldn’t contaminate the chemical.
Scarlet sat watching, luminous, her eyes beautiful with fear.
He loved that, the man. It gave him flourish. To be the knower, in front of such innocence and curiosity. He’d already done it with the sex; now he wanted to do it with the substances. He wanted to claim more and more, until she was hurt, and wept, until she was wrecked and ruined. She thought it was love, but he wouldn’t know love from a hole in the ground. He thought this was love, too, this wreckage. When it was complete, he would say she had spoiled the love, that he had brought it to her pure and she had fussed and spoiled it with her neediness.
‘Roll up your sleeve,’ he said, and handed her the tightener. ‘Put this on.’
I pecked at the simulacrum and we groomed ourselves, just quickly, just to make sure we were ready in every covert and pinion. Beyond my fellow there the work went on, with the flame and the precious dust and the injecting machine. Nothing spilled or was wasted. The man kept his temper; he didn’t loose a single dung-word. Scarlet stayed still and wide-eyed.
I sent the simulacrum down. It put chin to chest and dropped and spread and fluttered, onto Scarlet’s shoulder. It had a finer body than I; being invisible, it could afford to be ideal – there was no risk that it would dazzle and unhinge anyone.
Scarlet turned its way and searched the shadows behind her. The simulacrum breathed, and fanned its breath into her face.
‘Tighter!’ snapped the man.
Scarlet fumbled with the tightener. Bright droplets of the substance-juice sprang from the needle, curved on the air – apparently it was all right to waste just this little, to make this little libation.
Taylor had trained Smoko to sit on his finger. He had carried him around, finger to shoulder to finger.
He sat at the computer and the bird sat with him.
He brought Smoko in to Scarlet’s room where she was studying. She looked up scowling, but the scowl cleared when she saw the bird. ‘Will he come to me?’ she said.
‘He’ll come to anything that bumps him in the chest,’ said Taylor.
Scarlet touched the breast feathers with her knuckle and up Smoko stepped.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘His feet are warm !’
‘Well, look at them; they’re so pink, they’d have to be.’
She laughed carefully, through her nose. ‘I don’t know. I expected them to be cold and scratchy. Like a reptile’s. To hurt ! But yes, you’re toasty, aren’t you?’
Smoko sat in a gentle
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