Glasshouse - Charles Stross [45]
“—Or to forgive Cass, for her tendency to oversleep. Such as today, when she seems to have forgotten to come to Church.”
They’re not looking at me anymore, but they’re muttering, and there’s a dark undercurrent of disapproval at work. I catch Sam’s eye, and he looks frightened. He reaches out sideways, and I grab his hand and cling to it as if I’m drowning.
“I urge you all to give your sympathies to Mick, her husband, who has to support such a slothful wife, and to help her out when next you see her.” And now I can follow everybody’s gaze to Mick. He’s short and wiry and has a big, sharp nose and dark, brooding eyes. He looks angry and defensive, for good reason. The bruising weight of a five-point infraction has left me feeling weak in the knees and frightened, and now he’s getting it as a proxy for his wife’s failure to get up in the morning—
Failure to get up in the morning? I feel like yelling at Fiore: It’s an excuse, idiot, an excuse for not being seen in public!
Fiore moves on to discuss other people, other cohorts, stuff that’s meaningless to me right now. My netlink comes up, insisting I vote on whether to add or subtract points to each of the other cohorts, with a list of sins and achievements tallied against each name. I don’t vote for any of them. In the end our own cohort gets dumped on unanimously by the voters of the five older ones. We all lose a couple of points, signaled by the tolling of a sullen iron bell hanging in an archway near the back of the Church. Fiore signals the zombie to strike up the organ and leads us in another meaningless song, then it’s the end of the service. But I can’t run away and hide just yet because the auto-da-fé is followed by a social reception in honor of the new cohort, so we can smile brittle smiles and eat canapés under the magnolia trees while they politely sneer at us.
There are tables laid out in the ornamental garden called a graveyard that backs onto the Church. They’re covered with white cloths and stacked with glasses of wine. We’re led outside and left to fend for ourselves. Taxis don’t run on Sunday during Church services. I find myself standing stiffly with my back as close to the churchyard wall as I can get, clutching a wineglass with one hand and Sam with the other. My shoes are pinching, and my face feels set in a permanent grimace.
“Reeve! And Sam!” It’s Jen, dragging along Angel and their husbands, Chris and El, in her undertow. She looks a little less ebullient than she was yesterday, and I can guess why.
“We didn’t do so well,” El grunts. He spares me a lingering glance that hits me like a punch in the guts. It’s really creepy. I know exactly what he’s thinking, just not why he’s thinking it. Is it because he thinks I cost him his points or because he’s trying to imagine me with no clothes on?
“We could have done worse,” says Jen, her words clipped and harsh-sounding. She’s strangling her handbag in a death grip.
“On the outside.” I take a deep breath. “I’d challenge Fiore if he made a crack like that at me in public.”
“But you’re not on the outside, darling,” Jen points out. She smiles at Sam. “Is she like this at home, or only when she’s got an audience?”
I am close, very close, to throwing the contents of my wineglass in her face and demanding satisfaction just to see if she’ll crack, but my butterfly mind sees a distraction sneaking furtively past behind her—it’s Mick. So instead of doing something stupid I do something downright foolhardy and march right over to him.
“Hello, Mick,” I say brightly.