FIVE

Johnny lived in the south eastern part of the city, known as the River Quarter. It ran alongside Lark’s River Lag.

Alt, the corporation Johnny worked for, employed many of the folks who lived nearby. Its water plant provided hydropower, generating heat and electricity for a good part of Maal’s population. As he neared home, Johnny could hear the low hum of turbines, the hiss of water as it bled through the plant’s system.

He lived in one of Alt’s economy blocks. It was a cheap and cheerful perk of his job. It would normally be a thirty minute walk from Tomb Street but took a little longer when feeling as delicate as Johnny did. He could have taken the underground, done it in five, but he needed the walk to clear his head.

He arrived at his apartment, opening the door. The lights came on, automatically syncing to his cell.

He suddenly remembered the credit card.

Johnny flipped his cell open, spread its screen. He inputted his security details, accessing his bank’s website. Called up the relevant statements. There had been a withdrawal via his card to the tune of three hundred dollars. Today’s date. Funds had been transferred online.

The fuckers had hacked him.

Johnny searched for details of the receiving account, finding it had been swiftly closed after the transfer. No account, bar his own, could be traced. Johnny cursed, banging his fist on the nearby wall.

He cancelled the card. Damage limitation. Shouldn’t have had the fucking thing anyway. Cards were bad news: everyone knew that. Handy if you lost your cell but risky all the same. At least with a cell, you had security: most would only respond to pre-set fingerprints or voices; shutting down if a different user tried to interact. Cards, on the other hand, were simple, basic, archaic, little bastards.

Johnny set his cell down, walked through the living area and entered the kitchen.

His fan immediately kicked into action, its whirring motion making him a little dizzy.

A bunch of flowers lay dead and unwrapped in the sink.

The smell of decaying food was overbearing and Johnny covered his mouth before opening the fridge. A plastic bottle of milk, the most likely culprit. Johnny lifted it out of the fridge and poured its thick, pungent contents down the sink.

He went to toss the empty carton, then realised his trash can was full to overflowing. It wasn’t smelling too healthy either.

Johnny sat the empty carton on top of the fridge and went to leave the kitchen.

He spotted the bottle of JD. An empty glass sat on the bench nearby, taunting him. Johnny lifted the bottle, quickly pouring a small helping of JD. Just something to take the edge off, he thought to himself. He downed the contents. It ran down his throat like acid. A sharp pain hit his stomach, doubling him over. It dulled within moments.

His cell beeped from the other room.

He walked through, retrieved the damn thing, flicking it open.

‘What?!’

‘Hallo? Johnny? Is that you?’ Christ, Johnny mused. This is the last thing I need. ‘Hallo?’ the voice persisted.

‘Yeah, Sarah. It’s me. I’ve just had a bad morning. Sorry for snapping.’

There was a pause, then: ‘Are you okay, Johnny? We’re all worried about you. Did you get the flowers?’

Johnny thought of the dead stalks lying in his sink, now covered in sour milk.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘It was very thoughtful. Tell everyone thanks.’

‘I will.’

Another pause. Johnny had tired of the call already.

But just as he went to make his excuses and hang up, Sarah spoke again: ‘Everyone’s wondering when you’re coming back.’

Johnny laughed. It wasn’t a good laugh.

‘Everyone? Or just Garçon?’

He heard Sarah sigh.

‘Look, he told me to call you,’ she whispered. ‘I think he’s going to fire you, Johnny. You need to call him. Talk to him. Please.’

‘Let him fire me. I don’t need him or his poxy job.’

‘But Johnny –’

‘Goodbye, Sarah.’

Johnny snapped the cell closed then stood, for a moment, staring at the wall. There was a framed photograph, hanging on a nail right opposite him. It was crooked. He went to steady it, pausing to examine the image.

He’d taken the pic last summer. It was Becky. The sun had burned her skin a little and a fresh sprinkle of freckles had broken across her forehead, just below her hairline. Her lips were slightly twisted, as though she’d been stifling a smile.

Johnny ran his finger over the picture, wanting her mouth to open, to nibble at his finger the way she sometimes would.

Yet Becky’s lips remained closed.

She wasn’t smiling properly and Johnny knew why. She had a slight gap in the middle of her front row of teeth. It was endearing, one of the things Johnny had first noticed about her. But Becky hated it.

Johnny wondered if he had any photos where Becky was smiling properly, with her teeth showing.

He went into the bedroom, ignoring the mess of scattered clothes. He rummaged through the drawer of his wardrobe, finding an old box of prints. He dug through them, finding pictures of Becky with the same stifled grin.

Johnny dropped the box to the floor.

He flicked open his cell, searched its image files. Every picture of Becky had the same expression. There were no photos of her smiling.

With horror, Johnny realised that he had forgotten what her smile looked like. Her real smile, not her photo-smile. He tried to picture it in his mind but couldn’t. She was becoming a stranger to him. He was losing more of her with each passing day.

Johnny sat down on the edge of the bed, allowed the heavy wave of remorse and sorrow to wash across his chest.

He had no tears left. He had no pictures of Becky’s smile and he had no tears.

His eyes were as dry as his mouth.