The Model

"You probably think I’m after your body," remarked Packham. The youth smiled vacantly back at him. He tried again. "You. Probably. Think. I’m. After. Your. Body." The boy smiled again and absent-mindedly ran a hand through his curls. Never mind, thought Packham. We won’t bother with witty conversation this time. Still, he was rather lovely, he thought. Who knows what might have happened if he’d found him a few years earlier?

Packham glanced at his watch. "I think the time draws nigh," he announced, "So put down your mug and follow me. Put. Down. Your. Mug. You have finished, haven’t you? Finished?" The youth nodded slowly and stood up.

Packham led the way down a passage to his studio. The room was warm but dark, apart from a single spotlight shining down on a plinth. He motioned the youth towards it.

"Alright, then, if you could just take your kit off, please," he said. It was more of a suggestion than a command, but the youth seemed to understand what he was supposed to do. When he was completely naked, he stood there awkwardly, whilst Packham slowly circled around him, taking in every square inch of flesh.

"I do believe you’re perfect," he murmured eventually, stepping back, "Perfect. Just perfect." The youth smiled nervously again. Packham seemed temporarily lost for words. Then, as if bringing himself out of a trance, he suddenly clicked his fingers and announced, "To business!"

"See this sling?" he said, producing a strip of material, "It should dangle over your left shoulder, like so." Packham started adjusting the young man’s pose. "Move your hand up there … hold it right there. Then turn your head that way … no, back towards me ever so slightly … yes, that’s nice. Now the right hand just hangs down by your thigh … and just inch your left leg forward, and shift your weight to the right … lovely, dear boy, lovely …"

When he was finished, Packham stepped back a couple of paces and examined the boy. This was going to be even better than he’d dared hope. He checked his watch again. It was almost time.

"Just hold it for a few more seconds … Mmmm, that should do fine."

The boy gave out a strange, muffled, choking sound.

"Ah, you’ve noticed," said Packham. "You’re probably wondering what’s happening to you. I’m afraid I’ve been a little naughty." He stepped up to the plinth and looked straight into the youth’s eyes. There was a look of complete panic in them.

"Tut tut," he said, shaking his head. "You should be feeling proud of yourself. After all, here you are, a street kid from God knows where, living here illegally by selling your arse to whoever will have you, and now you’ve become a work of art." There was the barest of a flicker in the boy’s eyes.

"Science is a wonderful thing, you know. And never let anyone tell you that it has nothing to do with art. We artists have always been right up there at the frontier, you know. And do you know where the frontier is these days? Right here …" He gently prodded the boy’s stomach. It was completely rigid.

"I’m talking about nano, dear boy. Nanotechnology. Inside your lovely perfect body, there are millions upon millions of tiny little self-replicating robots, all from one cup of coffee. Every single cell of you is being invaded. You’re being embalmed alive. A human sculpture." The eyes were almost lifeless now. Packham stepped back, and flicked a switch on the wall. The rest of the studio lit up in a blaze of light, and half a dozen familiar statues became visible. He went back up to the youth, took out a silk handkerchief, and carefully wiped away the trail of spittle from the corner of his mouth.

"You should consider yourself lucky," he confided. "Take a look at poor Venus over there. I have a feeling that she was still alive when I cut her arms off, you know." He paused. The eyes were completely dead. Packham leant forward and kissed the boy lightly on the lips.

"David, my David …," he whispered. (700 words)