He hooked up with Imelda Probert, more generally known as the Ice-Maker – a faith healer who offered a bespoke deal to the living dead – and now visits her a couple of times a month for a mystical/religious tune-up. He learned meditation techniques, and claims to be able to visit different parts of his body on a cellu sody/relar level, repairing damage with the cement of self-belief. And, like I said earlier, he stays out of the sun in case he spoils.
But today he was sitting out in the open on a bench on the Pall Mall side of the park, his arms spread across the back of the bench and his crossed legs sticking out in front of him, looking relaxed and expansive.
I sat down next to him, on the edge of the bench because he didn’t bother to move up and make room for me. His gaze flicked sideways to acknowledge me, then he went back to staring up through the leafless branches at the grey, swag-bellied clouds.
I tilted my head upwards, following his gaze. There was nothing to see up there except the black lattice of the branches against the sky – the ribcage of a monster waiting to be reborn.
Nicky snorted dryly. He does everything dryly, of course: no body fluids. ‘Castor,’ he murmured, ‘the only mother around here is you. Don’t try to small-talk me, and don’t piss me off, because I’m not in the mood.’
‘Fine. I won’t. I’d hate to spoil your mood, Nicky.’
‘So you want something or not? I didn’t come out all this way to hear your usual bullshit.
‘Well, I offered to come to you,’ I reminded him. ‘You saw me, raised, and I folded. And I’ve got to say, this is a whole new you.’
He looked at me again, for a second or two longer this time, and shrugged as he looked away again. ‘I’m having some work done on my place,’ he said simply.
That was intended to shut me up, and it worked.