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There are some nights to regret. Some nights when I look back and wish I had stayed at home, or that Pablo and I had lasted a few more weeks so I wouldn't have been single. Single, insecure, and looking to make a connection. The question I must ask myself now is, why do I punish myself by looking for a connection at The Arnica?
The Arnica is not like other singles' bars. Instead of faux oak panelling or virtual fish tanks, The Arnica decorates with Yeats and the darkest Blake, augmenting their unruly scrawl with 3D visuals and houseplants. My favourite place to sit is in the corner next to the 'ravens of unresting thought.' That night, after my fourth Blake's 'Lullaby', the rumpled man under the 'dim glass that the demons hold' began to look interesting and interested. With an unsteady lurch and a firm grasp on my fifth (and last) 'Lullaby', I invited myself to his solitary table.
"Dulcie," I managed, as an explanation and introduction rolled into one.
"Welson," he replied with a vague smile. "You look, Dulcie, like a woman who is hunted, but wants to be a hunter. Or, perhaps the other way around." Nodding. "Yes, I can help you. Mmm, yes I can."
I mumbled something affirmative in response. Through the alcohol-induced haze, I was struck by the sudden certainty that Welson looked exactly like an ex-corp who'd lost his job, jumped from his office window to avoid facing failure, and somehow survived the fall. Yes, he took me home that night. No, Prufrock he wasn't.
* * *
I lost my job after the M87 incident. No explanation from dear old Oxford. At least they sent the notice to my flat, sparing me Luce's self-satisfied sympathy at my termination. Now I want nothing more than to trickle the last of my finances away with the electricity bill. But, I can't-not with Jesse, my son (his friends call him 'dormouse' for some reason), depending on me. So I pretend to look for work and keep my spirits up. And, as soon as Jesse's out of the house, I plug back in...
Dead night. Fir trees black against ink sky. Night air heavy and frozen. I lie on a bed of feathers and bones, remnants of the old grey goose, and worry the bullet in my haunch. So far, only matted hair is loose. Pain is rhythmical and steady. I consider my exposed muscle and bleach-white gleam of bone. Another tear, and a blood glazed bullet slides loose. Ignoring, I lick the wound...
[Internal incongruity]
[Program breach]
Exasperated, I lower my VR headset and look around the flat. Nothing. Afternoon sunlight forming slanted columns of dust. The only movement is the muscles in my left thigh twitching. Jesse, still out. Wait, I whisper, internal incongruity? I push my headset back into place...
Only the bullet. No fir trees. No cedars. No bones. No wolf. And Welson's face with Hubbard's body, but somehow managing to look rumpled. Shotgun slung over one shoulder.
"It's a gift," he says, "something for that night the other week." He swings the shotgun off his shoulder and levels it at me.
The spent bullet, still covered in wolf's blood, is in my hand. Turning and running. Scrabbling over grey, ribbed terrain. Sliding down milky, chitinous expanses. Then cornered. Welson in a black cape, mask covering half his face. Hubbard's shotgun.
Jenna Manley, 24/05/01
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