them, flowers, wordless pictures. A cheap amelioration of a room which we like to pretend is nothing to do with the cloacal. Hologram Boy says the words amelioration then cloacal in his unbroken voice. He waits, head cocked, for Magnus to say absolutely back.
Fuck off out of here you fake little shit, Magnus says to Hologram Boy.
Hologram Boy fizzes a little, as if overloading. Then he snaps into nothing in an instant like someone unplugged him.
Magnus breathes out hard. He looks at the ceiling above the bath, at the fake beam. He wonders if all the rooms in the house have them. He stands on the edges of the bath. He tests the beam with his weight by hanging off it by his arms. It holds, firm enough. He takes off his shirt, ties one arm of it to the beam with a slipknot. He tugs on the other arm to tighten it.
The girl in the magazine had breasts that were angled as if coming at you out of the picture. There was no escape from them. They were like two stupefied eyes looking at you. They were quite big, with lighter-darker tan marks over their nipples. She had dark hair. He can’t remember what kind of eyes. Her nipples were large, hard. Her mouth was red, open. Her wet tongue was there, her teeth. Her body was arched so you could see into all her holes.
Catherine Masson was wearing her dark blue school pullover. It had the shield embroidered into it on the left side of her chest, with its words in it, Endeavour With Concord, the Deans motto. She was wearing a tie with a full-looking, soft-looking knot. She was wearing a white school shirt with its lapels tucked neatly into the pullover. She was smiling a friendly smile. Her mouth was closed. Her skin was clean-looking. Her brown hair was shoulder-length. Her fringe was quite far down over her eyes. You could still see her eyes quite clearly. They were deep brown.
He used one of the new scanners with a Mac. First he scanned both using Photoshop. Then he clicked on the marquee tool. He showed them how to select the head, copy then make a new layer with the body. Then he showed them how to cut round her with the lasso. He showed them the background eraser. He explained pasting the head, dissolving the edges, blending it normal. He showed them save, then how to send it as a jpeg, then finally how to delete.
Magnus puts his arms around himself. He is shivering. He is freezing cold. He stands in the bath on the rubber grip. Reaching up, he ties a slipknot in the other arm of the shirt. He stands up on the edges of the bath again. He loosens the knot until it is big enough. He pushes his head through it. It hangs loose all the way round his neck. Its cuff juts into his ear. He is at the angle of depression. Conduct an experiment to discover how a beam will progressively sag with a loading upon it where m = the load in tonnes, where n = the sag in mm. He takes one foot off the edge of the bath. He holds it in the air. He should say a prayer. Now I lay me down to sleep. He is shaking. He puts the foot carefully back on the edge again. He can see the dust on the top of the beam, the places whoever painted it black missed with the brush. He is level with the lampshade. He can see the cobwebs on its upper rim, the dust on the top of the lightbulb. He can’t work out why the lampshade isn’t shaking too, why the whole room isn’t shaking.
Meanwhile someone has come into the bathroom. It is his own fault. He should have locked the door. He didn’t remember to lock it. He is such a failure. He can’t even do this properly.
It is an angel. She stares up at him.
It was just a joke, he says.
I see, she says. Is this a joke too?
She leans on the towel rail, watching him. She has yellow angelic hair.
It’s my fault, he says. Because first I showed them how to. Then they sent it round the list. Then she. I have to.
He starts to cry. He holds on to the beam.
I understand, the angel says.
It was an accident, he says.
Okay, the angel says.
The wrong thing
Fuck off out of here you fake little shit, Magnus says to Hologram Boy.
Hologram Boy fizzes a little, as if overloading. Then he snaps into nothing in an instant like someone unplugged him.
Magnus breathes out hard. He looks at the ceiling above the bath, at the fake beam. He wonders if all the rooms in the house have them. He stands on the edges of the bath. He tests the beam with his weight by hanging off it by his arms. It holds, firm enough. He takes off his shirt, ties one arm of it to the beam with a slipknot. He tugs on the other arm to tighten it.
The girl in the magazine had breasts that were angled as if coming at you out of the picture. There was no escape from them. They were like two stupefied eyes looking at you. They were quite big, with lighter-darker tan marks over their nipples. She had dark hair. He can’t remember what kind of eyes. Her nipples were large, hard. Her mouth was red, open. Her wet tongue was there, her teeth. Her body was arched so you could see into all her holes.
Catherine Masson was wearing her dark blue school pullover. It had the shield embroidered into it on the left side of her chest, with its words in it, Endeavour With Concord, the Deans motto. She was wearing a tie with a full-looking, soft-looking knot. She was wearing a white school shirt with its lapels tucked neatly into the pullover. She was smiling a friendly smile. Her mouth was closed. Her skin was clean-looking. Her brown hair was shoulder-length. Her fringe was quite far down over her eyes. You could still see her eyes quite clearly. They were deep brown.
He used one of the new scanners with a Mac. First he scanned both using Photoshop. Then he clicked on the marquee tool. He showed them how to select the head, copy then make a new layer with the body. Then he showed them how to cut round her with the lasso. He showed them the background eraser. He explained pasting the head, dissolving the edges, blending it normal. He showed them save, then how to send it as a jpeg, then finally how to delete.
Magnus puts his arms around himself. He is shivering. He is freezing cold. He stands in the bath on the rubber grip. Reaching up, he ties a slipknot in the other arm of the shirt. He stands up on the edges of the bath again. He loosens the knot until it is big enough. He pushes his head through it. It hangs loose all the way round his neck. Its cuff juts into his ear. He is at the angle of depression. Conduct an experiment to discover how a beam will progressively sag with a loading upon it where m = the load in tonnes, where n = the sag in mm. He takes one foot off the edge of the bath. He holds it in the air. He should say a prayer. Now I lay me down to sleep. He is shaking. He puts the foot carefully back on the edge again. He can see the dust on the top of the beam, the places whoever painted it black missed with the brush. He is level with the lampshade. He can see the cobwebs on its upper rim, the dust on the top of the lightbulb. He can’t work out why the lampshade isn’t shaking too, why the whole room isn’t shaking.
Meanwhile someone has come into the bathroom. It is his own fault. He should have locked the door. He didn’t remember to lock it. He is such a failure. He can’t even do this properly.
It is an angel. She stares up at him.
It was just a joke, he says.
I see, she says. Is this a joke too?
She leans on the towel rail, watching him. She has yellow angelic hair.
It’s my fault, he says. Because first I showed them how to. Then they sent it round the list. Then she. I have to.
He starts to cry. He holds on to the beam.
I understand, the angel says.
It was an accident, he says.
Okay, the angel says.
The wrong thing
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