Two was as far from me as Four had been from him when he, Two, had shot him, Four, in the bank. He was still moving forwards, lumbering towards me. So I shot him. It was half instinctive, a reflex, as I’d first suspected: to tug against the last solid thing there was, which was the trigger-tug against it as though it were a fixed point that the body could be pulled back up from. But I’d be lying if I said it was only that that made me pull the trigger and shoot Two. I did it because I wanted to. Seeing him standing there in Four’s position as I stood in his, replaying in first my mind and then my body his slow fall, I’d felt the same compulsion to shoot him as I’d felt outside Victoria Station that day to ask passers-by for change. Essentially, it was the movements, the positions and the tingling that made me do it-nothing more.
The new blast echoed round the warehouse. It made its walls tingle too-its walls, its ceiling and its floor. They tingled and hummed and sang and seemed to levitate. Sawdust took off from the floor and swirled around circling in the air; small lumps of rubble jumped. Two levitated too: he took off from the spot where he was standing-took off like a helicopter rising straight up, only he rose up and slightly backwards at the same time. He hovered for a while in the air and then crumpled back into the ground.
I got up, walked over to where he lay and looked down at him. He was lying on his back.
“He should be on his side,” I said, to no one in particular.
I knelt down beside him and pulled him into the same fetal position Four had ended up in. Two’s eyes, too, were empty. He was pretty dead as well. His blood was also flowing-but it wasn’t as clean as Four’s blood. It had these bits in it, these grains and lumps. I poked at his exposed flesh with my finger. It was a lot like Four’s flesh: it had that same sponge-like texture, soft and firm at the same time.
Naz had come into the warehouse. He was moving really slowly. Eventually he stopped a few feet from me, and his eyes tracked across the floor where Two’s blood was gathering in a pool.
“Wow, look at it,” I said. “It’s just a…a thing. A patch. A little bit repeating.”
I prodded Two’s exposed flesh again, felt it first slightly give and then resist.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” I said to Naz. “You could take everything away-vaporize, replicate, transubstantiate, whatever-and this would still be there. However many times.”
Naz didn’t answer. He just stood there, locked up, closed down, vacant. He was pretty useless. I had to lead him back to the car and drive it myself the short distance to the airport terminal with the two remaining re-enactors moaning and quivering around me. We parked in a long-stay car park. I asked Naz to hand us all our tickets. He just turned his head halfway towards me and said nothing. I reached into his jacket, found the tickets, handed the re-enactors theirs and kept hold of mine and Naz’s. I told everyone we’d enter the terminal together and then separate, the two re-enactors heading for their gate while Naz and I went to the special check-in desk for private planes.
“Will we have to pass through a metal detector?” I asked Naz.
Naz stared ahead of him in silence.
“Naz!” I said again. “Do we have to…”
“No,” he answered. His voice had changed so it was somewhere between the same monotone my pianist spoke in and the one I’d instructed my various re-enactors to use.
“That’s good!” I said. “You’re getting into it.”
I folded my shotgun and placed it inside a bag. I liked it now, wanted to keep it with me, carry it around like a king carries around his sceptre. I was feeling even more regal than normaclass="underline" with Naz out of action I’d assumed direct executive command of everything-logistics, paperwork, the lot. I proclaimed to the car in generaclass="underline"
“There’s nothing to be worried about. It’s a very happy day. A beautiful day. And now we shall all go into the air.”
We left the car, processed across the car park and entered the terminal building, the others lumbering along behind me. I called a halt, mustered them all together and was about to send the two re-enactors off to where they had to go when something caught my eye. It was one of those coffee concessions, the Seattle-theme ones. We were in a different terminal to the one where I’d met Catherine, but this terminal had a concession too-although not in exactly the same spot. The counter, till and coffee machines were arranged differently as well, although they were all the same size and shape and colour as the ones in the first terminal’s concession. It was the same, but slightly different. I approached the counter.
“I’d like nine small cappuccinos,” I said.
“Heyy! Nine short-nine?” he said.
“Yup,” I told him, showing him my loyalty card and handing him a twenty-pound note. “I’ve got nine more to go. So: nine, plus one.”
He started lining the cups up, but a thought struck me and I told him:
“You can strip the other eight away. The other nine, I mean. It’s only the remaining one I want. The extra one.”
He looked perplexed now.
“I can’t really stamp the card and give you your extra one unless I make the other nine.”
“Oh, I’ll pay for the nine,” I said. “But it’s just the tenth I want. You can keep the nine, or throw them out, or do whatever you want. I’ll get nine more next time round.”
“Next time round?” he asked.
“Whatever,” I said.
I paid him; he stamped my card and handed me a new one with the first cup on it stamped, then gave me my extra coffee. I walked back over to where the others had been mustered. Only Naz was still there, standing all locked up and vacant.
“Where have the re-enactors gone?” I asked him.
He didn’t answer, of course. I don’t think he even understood the question.
“Oh, well,” I said. “They can leak. That’s good. So where’s our check-in desk?”
I looked around the terminal. There was a newsagent’s shop a few yards away. Outside it, a free-standing billboard had the evening headline stuck to it. Shares Tumble, it announced.
“That’s good too!” I said. “No: that’s brilliant! It all accrues, then tumbles. Like the sun.”
I found our desk. It was wider than normal desks, which is strange given that the planes people checked into from it were smaller. We checked in; the woman asked us if we had any luggage; I said no, just this little bag; I’d take it with me as hand luggage. We were led through a little door onto the concourse and driven in a strange electric car a bit like a golf buggy out across the airport towards a strip on which a bunch of little planes were lined up. Then we got out, walked a few feet across the tarmac and climbed some steps into a tiny private jet. A stewardess stood at the door to greet us.
“Is your friend alright?” she asked me as we passed her.
“Oh, he’s had a shock,” I said. “He had it coming, though. In all, it’s a very happy day.”
The cockpit was only a few yards from where our seats were. It was separated from the cabin by a small partition door, which was ajar. As we walked past this door the pilot half-turned round and said:
“Welcome aboard, folks.”
I liked the way he half-turned, how he let his upper body swivel without fully revolving. The way he said his line as well. He said it just like pilots are supposed to say it. I’d have to get the whole thing re-enacted one day. We sat down. The stewardess said we’d been cleared to take off straight away, but would we like a drink once we were airborne? She had wine, spirits, tea, coffee, water…