Pattern Recognition by William Gibson Read Free Book Online

place, she has a moment’s benchmark as to the extent of her ongoing improvement in affect. Most of her soul must already have arrived, she thinks, remembering her predawn horrors; now it’s just Damien’s place, or a recently redecorated version of Damien’s place, and if anything it makes her miss him. If he weren’t off scouting a documentary in Russia, they could ford through the Camden crowd and up Primrose Hill.
    Her encounter with Voytek and his friends and their little black calculators from Buchenwald, whatever that might have been, seems like last night’s dream.
    She locks the door and crosses to the Cube, which sits there blank-screened, its illuminated static switches pulsing softly. Damien has cable, so his service is never really off, or not supposed to be. It’s time to check in on Fetish:Footage:Forum and see what Parkaboy and Filmy and Mama Anarchia and her other co-obsessives have made of that kiss.There will be much to catch up on, taking it from the top, getting the drift of things.
    Parkaboy is her favorite, on F:F:F. They e-mail when the forum really gets going, and sometimes when it’s dead as well. She knows almost nothing about him, other than that he lives in Chicago and, she assumes, is gay. But they know one another’s passion for the footage, their doubts and tentative theories, as well as anyone in the world does.
    Rather than retype the unbookmarked forum URL, she goes to the browser history.
    SEE ASIAN SLUTS GET WHAT THEY DESERVE!
    FETISH: FOOTAGE:FORUM
    She freezes, hand on mouse, looking at this last logged site.
    Then she starts to feel it, that literal folkloric prickle in the scalp.
    And she can’t, through sheer mental effort, make Asian Sluts and F:F:F reverse their order on the screen. She desperately wants Asian Sluts to be below F:F:F, but it stays where it is. She sits there, unmoving, peering at the browser history the way she once peered at a brown recluse spider in a rose garden in Portland, a drab little thing her host reliably informed her contained enough neurotoxin to kill them both, and horribly.
    Damien’s flat is suddenly not a friendly place, not familiar at all. It has become a sealed and airless territory in which very bad things might happen. And it has, she now remembers, a second floor, to which, this trip, she has not yet even ascended.
    She looks up at the ceiling.
    And finds herself remembering the experience of lying more or less happily, or at least pleasantly abstracted, beneath a boyfriend named Donny.
    Donny had been more problematic than most other Cayce Pollard boyfriends, and she has come to believe that this had all been signaled in the first place by the fact that he was called Donny. Donny was notsomething, a woman friend had pointed out, that the men they went out with were usually called. Donny was of Irish-Italian extraction, from East Lansing, and had both a drinking problem and no visible means of support. But Donny was also very beautiful, and sometimes very funny, though not always intentionally, and Cayce had gone through a period of finding herself, though she never really planned to, under Donny, and Donny’s big grin, in the none-too-fresh bed in his apartment on Clinton Street, between Rivington and Delancey.
    But this final and particular time, watching him phase-shift into what she’d learned to recognize as the run-up to one of his ever-reliable orgasms, she’d for some reason stretched her arms above her head, perhaps even luxuriously, her left hand sliding accidentally under the cockroach-colored veneer of the headboard. Where it encountered something cold and hard and very precisely made. Which she brailled, shortly, into the square butt of an automatic pistol—held there, probably, with tape very similar to the tape she’d used here, this morning, to conceal the hole in her Buzz Rickson’s.
    Donny, she knew, was left-handed, and had so positioned this so that he could reach it conveniently as he lay in bed.
    Some very