We’re only using pieces of bodies to make it easier to justify the claims, then employing sleight of hand and document to make bits go accidentally missing.
“Accidents…” One could happen to her. I toss back the last of the glass and lie even further back, staring at the stained-glass dome in the ornate ceiling, letting the whisky heat soak into my body. I could, theoretically, chop her up then turn her into my obedient little servant. If we get the whole reanimation and reprogramming sorted out—and it’s very promising. Especially since Simon gave us that first clue. A pity he turned on us.
I study the ceiling, aware of a couple ambling in, hand in hand, staring at me.
That would be macabre. Nasty.
Horrific but also beautiful.
If these things can get pregnant, what do we call the offspring? Frankenbabies? We could artificially inseminate them or do it the natural way. That statement from the lawyer was robust.
Once declared clinically dead the tissue cannot be alive, legally, or not until we, meaning we as in the judiciary, alter the law. Technically, if they signed away their rights to their own tissues and bodies while they were alive, you could do anything to them after they are legally dead. This is equivalent to the fetal tissue taken from a woman back in the 1960s that is still used in vaccine manufacture.
My idea is merely a fantasy, though if she interferes in the research, trying to breed Simon Tarrant’s daughter would be intriguing. A frankenstruct is an it. It would not be legally alive, therefore any damage to it is not legally rape, assault, or murder.
“Bellissimo.” I kiss my circled thumb and finger then spring from the chair and stride for the exit. I never did like her at school. If she gets in the way it will be justified. We are getting too big, too well backed, for me to be squeamish over one woman.
12
PAGES, POTTERY, AND PUSSIES
Hailey
Following Ron and Molly’s sedan, I pull my pink Chevy into the driveway that runs down the side of their bookshop. My old car grumbles and rattles as it goes over a bump, and my head bounces with momentary pain. Hangover. Yuck. I was so drunk, last night. I barely recall what I said to him, to the frankenstruct. Maybe I should get more than tea in my stomach?
Some food? I scowl as nausea churns, and I hold my hand over my belly.
Or not.
To give Molly time to park, I halt at the join of sidewalk and road, noting the redPages and Potterysign perched above the front glass of the shop. It’s painted in a quaint Victorian style, with a flowery flourish border and all.
What did we say to each other? My memory blanks out,here and there, and that unknown is disturbing. Some of it remains. But we fucked and then…blur, showered, a few words were said, that I can recall, then fell asleep.
And I can appreciate how easily I am taking this bit of crazy science. We can recreate a fucking human, and I’m as emotionally shocked as by a new embroidery pattern.
When I drive forward and hit more bumps, my headache bounces to the fore. I grimace. Get a hangover and all disasters and crazy science become insignificant compared to the disgusting filthy toxins in your body? Maybe. When I exit the car, the slam of the car door reverberates.
Leaning on the Chevy, I look around while Ron unlocks the rear shop door.
This is a small parking area, enough for four cars, with garbage bins and a corrugated iron fence that conceals a mechanic’s yard. The tops of beaten-up cars and the faint clang and purr of machinery reinforce this notion.
The bookshop is on Main Street, and how many towns have a street named that? The mechanic must be on the parallel Runcorn Street. Slowly, I’m penciling-in and redrawing my map of Revenant. This used to be a small corner store, but I guess the supermarket down the road took all the trade.
We enter with Ron motoring his wheelchair through first, past a kitchen and storerooms, then into the main shop. A small mezzanine floor projects above us, with an overhanging balcony. It’s quaint. Nooks and spare places among the books are decorated with little sculptures and artworks, along with framed posters of upcoming literary events. A Paris 1921 poster of a book show, to the left at the front, is definitely a been-and-done affair.
“I love this.” Inhaling summons the unmistakable scent of books. “It even smells great.”
“You’re a booklover?” Molly deftly carries a stack of books past me. I nod to her.
I hesitate and start forward to help her as her cane has been laid aside, but then she pirouettes like a pro ballerina, sweeping her spare hand in an arc to encompass much of the shop as she begins to speak.
“Behold our books with their black-hearted ink seeping into Viking wars, cracked spines, and the ghosts of writers who bled their very souls into these tomes. Romances! Murders! Adventures and riveting thrillers…” She trails off with a grin before heaving the book pile straighter and depositing it on a square display table.
I’m standing open-mouthed in slight awe at her energy.
The shop seems to have revived her youth. It’s also, for the moment, dispelled my hangover.
“Definitely a few books in here,” mumbles Ron, from where he’s buried, sitting at the rear counter tapping something on a screen at their point of sale.
