Page 132 of Crocodile Tears

“Go on,” Josiah prompted softly.

“It doesn’t matter.” Alexander shoved a shirt viciously into the holdall.

“I can see the appeal. I’m not a believer, either, but I can see the words have a helpful meaning.”

Josiah sat on the side of the bed, imagining Alexander sitting here every morning, psyching himself up to live through one more day as the plaything of a wealthy, middle-aged man who was using him to prop up his ageing ego. The lyrics were a tiny, fascinating insight into his soul.

“The song is about devoting yourself to service,” Josiah mused. “But it’s also a negation of self. Giving everything with no prospect of reward. Is that how you see your life as an IS?”

Alexander shrugged.

“I can see that you don’t want to speak about this… Why not?”

Alexander turned away and grabbed some tee-shirts from a drawer.

“Alexander?” Josiah pressed.

“You’re my houder now,” he said abruptly. “You can tell me what to wear, what to eat, and how to serve you, and I promise – Ipromise” – his voice wavered a little – “that I will do it to the best of my ability, whatever it is. My body, my skills, and my service – they’re all yours, but…”

“Not the workings of your heart… not your soul?”

“My heart is private, and my soul is between me and any deity thatwants it.” Alexander gave a bitter laugh. “I don’t deserve anyone’s pity or compassion for the many stupid, bad, and thoughtless things I’ve done. If serving my houders can, in any small way, make up for those things, then I’m happy to give my entire life to that end. That’s all the lyrics mean to me, so don’t ask for more, because there isn’t any more. I’m really not that deep.”

The music swelled to a crescendo in the background and then finished. Alexander flicked it off, then threw the speaker and the music chip into the bag with his clothes. Clearly, that was an end to the conversation.

Josiah felt in need of something sweet after that, so he reached into his pocket for his little silver box and opened it – to find it was empty.

“Lost something?” Alexander asked.

“Forgot to refill my chocolate stash,” he said ruefully.

“That’s your vice? Chocolate?” Alexander raised an eyebrow.

“One of my vices. Not the worst.” He ran a hand absently over his bruised jaw. “I usually limit myself to two pieces a day, but having you around has fucked up my routine, so I forgot to fill the box this morning.”

“My apologies. I realise you don’t like having an IS.”

Josiah snapped the silver box shut and put it back in his pocket. “Don’t take it personally. I don’t like anyone getting in my space.”

“Especially not an IS?”

“Especially not an IS.”

“Because your husband was killed by one?”

“No – Christ, no.” Josiah shook his head vehemently.

“But that’s what everyone thinks – you know that, right?”

“Yes, I do, and everyone is wrong,” he said tersely. “I think you know how that feels.”

“Yes.”

“That’s something we have in common.”

“Yeah.” Alexander gave a grudging smile.

Josiah noticed that while Alexander’s wardrobe was full of flamboyant and exotic outfits in the latest fashions, with a particular emphasis on neo-glam, the clothes Alexander had packed were all of the plainer variety. He’d chosen tee-shirts, jeans, and sweaters, not theshimmering luminet fabrics or the leather military-chic jackets which he seemed to possess in a variety of different colours.

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