Replikat

By Jason Winstanley

Smirnov Kool has everything: fame, style, success and regular sexual relations.

Just one problem. He's missing. 

Manchester, as he knew it, is also missing: replaced by transparent cityscapes populated by naked people, forgotten lovers, a pyjama underclass and idea architects. It's a Manchester where taxis are fuelled by outmoded Broadband technology and you can legally terminate your able bodied spouse if you can make a convincing case against their existence. Society is regulated and monitored by the Lifebrace: a device designed to stabilise the body and soul. 

Smirnov's only connection to reality are memories but even those aren't what they used to be, the deeper he explores the changing environment.

REPLIKAT is an absorbing, body-jacking, gender-twisting, time-slashing, genre-hacking tale about revenge, identity and perception. Under neon lights. Behind lip gloss. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: BLOT
• Release date: Feb 24, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386906698

Book preview

ONE

Under neon light

It wasn’t his imagination . These gropers were definitely TV executives, politicians and religious leaders, Fritz thought; all being doted on by thin waistlines, fake smiles, false boobs and elevated heels. Idiots and lunatics engaging in idiocy and lunacy, he thought, under neon light. Their role in life, he thought, is to be idiotic under neon light. What they condemn in public, they mercilessly pursue in private, Fritz thought, knowing full well that his thoughts reeked of envy and hypocrisy. These leeches will gladly accept awards and prizes for being capable at something, often at the expense of disabling others, Fritz thought, under neon light.

He returned his gaze to the table and reflected on the bad week he was having. His play about Schrodinger’s cat had closed after four performances. Then there was the text rejecting his proposal for a TV series about Schopenhauer. If that wasn’t enough he recently noticed that the skin near his mouth had started to sag. At least, Fritz thought, he wasn’t on the run from the death squads in Myanmar. Now it was looking likely that he’d have to suffer the shame of begging the local colleges to hire him as a creative writing tutor. Perhaps he could start again. He still had that novel in him. Time would deliver it. Everything he needed was contained in time. He’d write the world. He didn’t need two million words and several books to tell his story. He just needed sufficient time to decontaminate a life ruined by education, complacency and good intentions. His dream was to write the one novel that would render everything irrational and pointless, and to do it before his contemporaries stole his ideas; which they seemed to be doing at an alarming rate. He had to do it before the city destroyed him. If you stayed in a place for too long it would destroy you, he thought. The noise and the sights would destroy you. The idiocy and lunacy on permanent display would cripple you. If you didn’t go insane the body itself would turn on you, he thought. Conversely, without intolerable conditions, such a novel couldn’t even begin to take shape. Therefore, he thought, you’re up against existence. My life, he reflected, is nothing but a series of failed projects, broken up with interminable, soul-destroying chapters of rumination, impossible crushes and empty corridors. At least he wasn’t unceremoniously being tossed on a bonfire in Nicaragua for being a devil worshipper.

‘Does it need a polish?’

Fritz noticed a figure decked out in a blue micro dress and fishnets.

‘Eh?’ said Fritz.

‘You’ve been staring at the table for thirty minutes. Something to drink?’

‘Are you paying?’ said Fritz.

‘Been here before?’

‘No.’

‘It works like this: you buy the drinks.’

‘For you?’ Fritz teased.

The figure in the shimmering dress threw itself on a chair. ‘Thought you’d never ask. I’m piggin’ wrecked!’

‘I suppose you work here,’ said Fritz dispiritedly.

‘A conversation for the price of a drink isn’t so bad.’

‘I’ve heard they can charge what they like here,’ said Fritz.

‘This is LipGloss, not 1960s SoHo, although we have bovver boys in case things get...emotional,’ said the owner of the fishnet legs Fritz couldn’t stop glancing at. ‘I’m Smirnov by the way. They wanted me to call myself something daft like Glitter or Lollipop. What’s your name?’

‘Montag,’ Fritz said. ‘Fritz Montag.’

Smirnov crossed his legs.

‘Hm. Why are you here?’

‘No special reason,’ said Fritz.

‘You can do better than that. You’re either here to forget the world or to forget yourself. One minute...Fiona?’ A figure dressed in a Harley Quinn costume trudged over. ‘What are we drinking, Herr Montag?’

‘Low C,’ said Fritz.

‘Low C! What the fuck is that?’ Fiona spluttered.

‘I’m on a diet,’ Fritz said quietly. ‘It’s a low calorie drink.’

Fiona looked blankly at Smirnov.

‘Get us a bottle of vino rosso,’ laughed Smirnov. ‘Low C!’

Fritz liked the way Smirnov looked at the ground when he laughed.

‘Do you like it here?’ Fritz asked.

‘It kills time. It pays bills. I don’t have to get up in the morning. Why do we do anything really? People say I have the gift of the gab. I like making conversation. I like... learning things,’ said Smirnov cryptically. ‘What can I learn from you?’

‘I don’t know. Boredom, probably.’

‘Don’t let this intimidate you,’ Smirnov said, indicating his outfit, hair and makeup. ‘A mask can enable us to be who we want. Cross-dressing is so much more than slipping into Mummy’s frock and heels. Think of it as an exotic language.’

‘Sounds like I could learn more from you,’ said Fritz.

Fiona brought the wine over and poured a sample. Smirnov took a sip and swilled it around. ‘Could be blood for all I care,’ he said, allowing Fiona to fill the glasses.

‘So what do you do?’ said Smirnov.

Fritz apologetically explained that he wrote whatever came to mind. Smirnov leant forward. ‘Have I heard of your stuff?’

‘Probably not.’

‘What do you write about?’

Fritz wearily explained that he didn’t write Hollywood blockbusters or stuff about magicians and vampires. He wrote about the human condition, about control, about the contamination of the spirit, about mutilation and vivisection, about war, about poverty and corruption, about human indignity and suffering. ‘Not exactly commercial,’ he said, expecting Smirnov’s eyes to glaze over.

Smirnov took a mouthful of wine. ‘You should write about...sex. Human beings are essentially pissed off because we can’t fuck who we want, when we want. Imagine it...the most powerful human on the earth can’t fuck who she wants, when she wants. All that power and she gets sod all! It’s got to have an effect, right? I’m not supposed to have an opinion about politics and religion in this dive but fuck it.’

Fritz acknowledged Smirnov’s naivety with a smile. It made sense in a roundabout way. They looked at each other as they drank. Fritz wanted to ask something but it was delicate. Smirnov read his mind. ‘Go on. Ask me.’

‘Don’t take this the wrong way. Call it curiosity...but they pay you to make conversation?’ asked Fritz.

‘Whatever we’re comfortable with. Chat, dance, whatever. I suppose the girls and I cater to special interests. Beware of Varya, though. She looks divine but that slut will have your secrets, your bank details and your soul forever. She’s a home-wrecker. There’s nothing that she wouldn’t do. It actually gets her off. And they go back to her for more.’

‘Her?’

‘We’re all girls in a way,’ Smirnov said.

Fritz’s mind momentarily went blank. ‘Sorry, I missed that. What did you say?’

‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘Something about special interests?’

‘You know,’ said Smirnov, draining his glass, ‘...I get a lot of strange requests. I’ve done some crazy things. But deep down I suppose I prefer the sad bloke that wants to be held. Maybe it’s a father thing.’

‘You miss your dad?’ Fritz asked.

‘Never really knew him. Died when I was young. As for my step-dad...the less said, the better. He wouldn’t be proud of me now, put it that way.’

‘Do you always say what you think you want your clients to hear?’

‘Mind games are such an international sport. Shit!’ Smirnov noticed a strand of hair over his eye. ‘Looks good from a distance but the strands tend to fall out,’ he said, adjusting his wig. ‘You wouldn’t believe how much it costs to get a decent piece.’

‘Do you ever meet clients...off the clock?’

‘We’re not supposed to. Some jack it in when they meet the man of their dreams. More?’

Fritz nodded. Smirnov poured another glass.

‘Anyway,’ Smirnov continued, pulling his chair close to Fritz, ‘I’ve been working on a script. I don’t know if it’s too far-fetched. You might be able to help.’

Fritz picked up the aroma of Smirnov’s cologne.

‘I asked someone from Granada,’ said Smirnov, ‘...but they said it wasn’t marketable. And they’re shit tippers!’

‘I wouldn’t put too much weight on my experience. It’s not a glamorous job,’ said Fritz.

‘But someone’s got to do it, hey?’

‘It never ends.’

‘We should collaborate like that Joe Orton bloke,’ said Smirnov.

‘And look how that ended up,’ Fritz replied.

‘Kind of romantic really,’ Smirnov said.

‘You want to tell me about this thing you’re working on?’

Smirnov took a breath. ‘Musk. That’s the name of the play.’

‘Based on perfume?’

‘It’s about a guy called Arafat. He’s skint. He has a pathological fear of becoming a taxi driver. His dad wants him to become a business analyst or something. Instead he becomes a hit-man. Takes out creeps, racists and scumbags. Gets a bit out of his depth in an underworld of drug smuggling, human trafficking and the sex trade,’ Smirnov explained.

‘Nice.’

‘You think so?’

Fritz took a drink and stared at his companion.

‘Shit, isn’t it?’ said Smirnov.

‘I didn’t say that.’

Fritz took out a pen and wrote something. He clumsily slipped the note under the table. His hand lingered on Smirnov’s knee. ‘When you’re free,’ he said, ‘I’ll take a look at your script.’

‘You didn’t tell me why you’re really here,’ said Smirnov knowingly.

Fritz checked his watch and drained his glass. He took a long serious look at the pretty thing sitting across from him.

‘I’m one of those sad blokes that just wants a cuddle,’ Fritz admitted.

TWO

Happy New Year

It was the year 2010 but what wasn’t certain anymore was which 2010? Was it one of billions of 2010s? Was it an imagined 2010? Or was it the only 2010 that had ever been? Had it not been for data, records and references to place the date, who knew whether 2010 existed at all? Fritz Montag’s 2010 and the 2010 he witnessed Jools Holland welcoming in for the New Year’s Hootenanny celebrations, never seemed to converge. Unless there was a time delay.

For some people 2010 was the year that fact and fiction began to fuse. Most people agreed that they were living in a 2010, where the only political differences between The Tidy Party, The Crusade Party and The Capital party, were the varying levels of racism, homophobia and taxophobia. In 2010 people were expecting the next terrorist incident, the next economic collapse and more curbs on freedom. They were afraid of foreigners. They were afraid of going out. They were afraid of failing. They were afraid of never being able to afford things to put inside their gated, rented, accommodations. They were