by Vic Robbie
Must get away.
For a big man, he was light on his feet. You had to be when a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound wrestler, all muscle and bone, flew at you from the top rope of the ring. But his legs were heavy as stone and, overcome by a fear of being defenceless, he broke into a stumbling run. Around him, buildings appeared to move, and the sky tilted and became a carpet of stars. And there was no pain as his face crashed into the concrete.
Chapter Two
The blood moon sat low on the horizon like an octopus, its tentacles of light spreading out and colouring the limo climbing high into the hills above the city. With a growing detachment, she gazed down on the burgeoning neon jungle. She had her qualoid, and all was calm now she’d completed her daily ritual.
She would have drifted into sleep but for the driver watching in the rear-view mirror and trying to engage her in conversation.
‘Do you mind if I ask you something?’ he said.
‘Depends.’
‘On what?’
‘If you want sex, the answer is no.’
‘I wasn’t—’
‘But if you want to gift me your quota of Qs, then who knows.’ She chuckled.
‘Is it possible?’
‘Not for all the moons of Jupiter.’
‘I meant, is it possible I might ask a question?’ He focused on the mirror for a clearer view of her reaction but not getting one continued, ‘Are you that billboard girl?’
‘Which billboard girl?’
‘The No.1 girl, Solo Blue. So many girls copy the style these days.’
She glanced at the array of glittering skyscrapers each topped by a gigantic billboard and sighed. Wherever she looked, she couldn’t escape herself.
‘Yep, that’s me,’ she said as nonchalantly as she could although she was pleased. Recognition was always positive and with her image around 30-feet high on at least forty billboards promoting five products across the city, it was impossible to be anonymous.
‘Wow, wait till I tell the guys back at base.’ As if the moment belonged to him, he kept watching her in the mirror.
The secret of being famous was to ignore them without showing it, but she couldn’t help herself. ‘Which do you like best?’
With a leer, the driver turned. ‘The bra.’ And hummed the jingle.
Might have guessed. Her major contract promoted a push-up bra although she needed no help in that department.
‘Let’s burn rubber.’ Her voice hardened ending the conversation. ‘The quicker I get there, the sooner I can leave.’ She turned away and stared out at the night. The driver’s voice droned on, but she tuned him out and stretched across the seat and inhaled more qualoid. She’d planned to stay at home in an old sweater and jogging pants and watch movies and eat ice cream, but this invitation had forced her to build her camouflage. The look was everything.
The face in the mirror wasn’t remarkable. Bland without distinguishing features. A nose that wasn’t straight but not abnormal. Lips neither full nor insignificant. So far, only one chin. The redeeming features were eyes that sparkled like sapphires in dross.
The accoutrements she needed were within reach on the dressing-table. How many times had she done this? She sighed at the thought of doing it again. At first, trying to disguise this insipidity was a voyage of discovery. Now, it was a chore that demanded the effort if it were to succeed.
After tying up her hair, she massaged her cheeks with both hands before applying a wax substance as a setter for the foundation she’d mixed from rice powder and water. After testing the consistency of the foundation with her fingers, she brushed the white paste over her skin, covering her eyebrows, eyelids and lips and defining the nape of her neck in a V shape. Between the hairline and the foundation, she left a space creating the illusion of an ivory white mask.
The base was perfect, and with each stroke of the brush, she submerged her real personality. With a resigned sigh and using an eyebrow pencil, she defined her eyebrows and made them soft and full. She put down the pencil and paused, every extra layer of protection increasing her self-confidence.
She applied red to the middle of her top eyelid, flaring it out to the corners and then stroked a black liquid liner along her top lid. Using a pencil liner, she applied a soft layer on her bottom lids to complete her eyes.
Sitting back, she inspected her work in the mirror then leant forward to alter a small detail.
The lips were important; otherwise, the effect would fail. Already covered in the white foundation, she used a lip liner to draw a bow-lip outline in a small pouty shape and filled it in with glossy red lipstick. Satisfied, she reckoned not even her mother would recognise her, which had always been the aim.
Finally, she brushed her long, black silken hair for at least ten minutes, so the healthy scalp oil spread to its tips and then separated it into four sections. The top of her head, the back and either side. For minutes her nimble fingers worked on each section until done.
Again, she inspected her progress, and as she turned her head from side to side, a wisp escaped, and in exasperation, she reunited the wayward tendril with the others. To complete the look, she inserted a flower as red as her lipstick in her hair.
Not a reconstruction, more a disguise to keep out the outside world.
She must have fallen asleep because the next thing the driver was coaxing her awake. ‘We’re here,’ he announced.
Although parties didn’t appeal to her, her agent had stressed it was essential to be seen at certain events. Many important people in their industry would be there. People who could propel her career to the next stage and make more money for them. Everyone likes a pretty girl. Just smile, laugh and be nice to them. Press the flesh, so to speak. She’d been at many parties where the men were over fifty and the girls under twenty-five, and they’d ended predictably.
But the overdose of Qs helped. She was so relaxed and in such a good place she reckoned she could cope with anyone, even amorous old men with halitosis. She’d give it an hour and then head back down the hill, scrub off her make-up, get back into an old sweater and jogging pants and eat ice cream for the rest of the night.
As expected, the house was impressive, extensive and three storeys with each of its tall Georgian windows radiating light like unblinking eyes. The creeper-clad facade gave the impression of a treehouse, and floodlit palmettos lined the driveway. Dark-suited chauffeurs lounged against a cluster of expensive collectors’ cars lined up on the flagstones of the courtyard. A couple lurked in the shadows, smoking illegally judging by the clouds rising into the sky. Anywhere else they risked arrest, but the police wouldn’t venture here.
The mellifluous Ella Fitzgerald’s Let’s Face The Music And Dance rolled out of the open windows and doors and, mingling with girlish laughter and male voices raised in expectation, drifted off into the night air.
Here we go again. She sighed, checking her make-up in a compact mirror before using the driver’s hand to exit the vehicle with as much decorum as possible, which was tricky in a tight pencil skirt.
Ottomon was the host. No one knew if he had a first name, but with his wealth, he didn’t need one. He was so rich his products or companies influenced almost everyone’s lives. If he liked you, you were made. If he didn’t, better run. Not that she could in this skirt.
Once over the threshold, the house opened into a large reception room full of low couches in which people sank as though in quicksand and a few perched on the arms, afraid they might be trapped. Large displays of exotic flowers of every colour adorned tables and beyond, open doors led to a floodlit swimming pool and the sound of splashing. Waiters carrying trays of assorted drinks and some with vials of qualoid circled the room ensuring no one’s hand was empty.
A waiter gave her a green cordial as she stepped into the room, causing heads to turn. Even in this stellar gathering, there was the odd nod of recognition and a half-smile of confirmation as they realised they were in the presence of billboard royalty. She could smell the
money, the men, of course. Many of the young women, models she guessed, were not there for their conversation—the difference between success and servitude.
‘Solo, my dear, delighted you came.’ Her agent’s partner, Clive, a small man with horn-rimmed glasses, a ridiculously tight suit and hands that flew about him like bats, bustled through the crowd. ‘You must come and meet our lovely host. He particularly asked for you to come tonight.’
Her first instinct was to refuse, but she allowed him to grab her elbow and usher her through the throng to a group of men sitting on low Japanese couches at the side of the great room. As they approached, one put down his glass and stood, half-bowing.
‘Thank you, Solo, for gracing us with your presence.’ The humble greeting unusual from a man who exuded confidence. He offered a hand, which she felt obliged to take, but it was soft and clammy although his grip was firm as if imparting a private message. His posture suggested friendship, but the eyes were cold, almost dead, and didn’t leave her.
‘Pleasure is mine.’ She heard the insincerity in her voice and wondered if anyone else did but followed it with a professional smile. ‘To meet you is such an honour.’ So, this was Ottomon.
He half-turned to the others on the couches as if saying, ‘Told you so.’
Making an excuse, Clive slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her away. ‘An old friend wants to see you.’ And as they moved across the room, he leant in and whispered, ‘He thinks you’re here for his pleasure, and he usually gets what he wants. Have a few drinks, circulate and keep out of his way. Don’t be alone with him.’
‘Okay, Daddy-O,’ Solo whispered and circulated, graduating to yellow cordials and then red and together with her overdoses of Qs she felt fantastic. It was surprising how it changed you. Even people you detested became bearable, and this was developing into the greatest party she’d ever attended. But after a couple of hours, the guests were thinning out, and her defence of strength in numbers was diminishing. Time to go. But as she made a determined path to the exit, a voice stopped her.
‘Can’t be leaving so early, Solo?’
The host stood closer than she liked. ‘We haven’t got acquainted yet.’ He seemed hurt. ‘It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have neglected you.’ And he offered a hand and pulled her in close, so his bulk wrapped around her blocking out the light.
She offered one of her practised smiles. ‘Not at all. Been the perfect host and there are so many hip cats here. Sorry to be leaving so early. Have a photoshoot in the morning. Got to be fresh for the cameras.’ She touched her cheek.
‘You’d look lovely at any time.’ He smiled, showing even white teeth, but the eyes had an evil depth and locked onto her like a missile.
An insistent hand on her arm thwarted her attempt to escape. ‘Before you go, I must show you my collection, which is my pride and joy.’
And someone nearby parroted, ‘Yes, you must see it, darling. It’s exquisite.’
‘Collection?’
‘Art. Paintings. Sculptures. I have the best in the country. Some say perhaps in the world.’
‘Really must go, maybe another time.’
‘No, no, I insist.’ His crooked smile wouldn’t be denied. ‘I’d be neglecting my duties as a host if I didn’t.’
‘But—’
‘I insist.’
She groaned but was relieved that in her purse she carried a small gas canister that would immobilise an elephant.
‘My gallery is in the basement.’ He ushered her into an elevator, and she stood as far away as possible from his halitosis. ‘Afraid it has to be secure. There’s more than a billion’s worth of art here.’ With every inch the elevator descended, the more she feared she was in danger. ‘We’ve got security guards everywhere, but when you see what I’ve got, you’ll understand why.’
The elevator opened into a large, oak-panelled room with recessed spotlights in the ceiling, illuminating his treasures lining the walls. In a far corner, a collection of sculptures in white marble looked like guests frozen in time. Some artwork was familiar, and a few she remembered from a school trip to a museum.
She followed him to a small mahogany bar at the end of the room. ‘Take your time and browse.’ He encompassed the room with an effete wave. ‘Do you have any favourites? I have everything—impressionists, cubists, modernists, expressionists, surrealists, abstract art. Take your pick.’
Although she knew little about art, she knew what she didn’t like. And there was plenty here not to like even if they were worth a fortune.
Her nervous laugh amused him as she moved around the room, studying the artwork. Farther along, a dull green light emanated from an open door.
‘What’s in here?’ She reached to push it open, but the host moved quicker, blocking her entry and shutting it behind him. ‘It’s a mess in there. There’s nothing of interest. No one should go in. Let’s have a drink.’
He poured a golden liquid, illicit whisky she reckoned, into two crystal tumblers and pointed to a silver platter containing lines of a white powder. ‘Like some?’ He smiled again, and his eyes never left her face.
‘No, no,’ she spluttered. ‘I’m a good girl. I stick to my Qs as the government tells me.’
‘A pity.’ He couldn’t hide his disappointment.
She accepted the drink and took a cautious sip, watching him over the glass.
‘You must know that everyone at the party recognised you,’ he said. ‘You’re a very famous young woman.’
‘And you’re a wealthy man.’ She shrugged. ‘I know what I’d rather be…’ Her voice trailed off, unable to think of anything more to say.
‘Money isn’t everything.’
‘Why do people with money always say that?’
‘It’s absolute power that matters.’
Expecting him to elaborate, she waited, but he returned to the silver platter. He closed one nostril and vacuumed up a line of the powder, eyes watering as he wiped his nose on the back of a hand. And again, she saw his disappointment.
‘Although I’m one of the richest men in the world, I have to be subservient to the members of the Praesidium. But I promise that will change.’
The host returned to the platter and, forgetting he’d already done so, sniffed another dose of the powder. Almost at once, he exhaled and slumped forward, his breathing becoming heavy and uneven. And he rocked back and forth.
‘Are you okay?’ She placed a hand on his shoulder, but he twisted and fell onto the bar and slid to the ground. A gurgle emanated from a slack mouth as she checked his pulse, but she couldn’t understand what he said.
There was no telephone to summon help. She’d have to find someone. As she passed the door the host had blocked her from entering, she couldn’t resist the temptation to go in. She looked back. Ottomon was moving, although still on the ground, and he wouldn’t notice. Just one peek, a matter of seconds.
Won’t do any harm.
Pushing open the door, she entered the room bathed in green from fibre optics. The temperature was different here than the rest of the house. A large glass case dominated the room, and she screwed up her eyes as she moved closer. The more she stared, the clearer a distant voice seemed to whisper in her head, and a fear she’d never experienced overwhelmed her.
Chapter Three
It was late, too late. Dr Dudley Skarab slammed down the phone and checked his watch against the digital clock on the laboratory wall. She wasn’t answering. Angry and worried, he shook his head. Anger wasn’t an emotion he usually indulged in. It was counterproductive. But every time he’d called her phone in the last couple of hours she hadn’t picked up. When that happened, it meant trouble. He expected her to stick to the rules he had laid down if they wanted to survive. She hadn’t asked to leave the house, and she wasn’t asleep because he could track her movements. His expletives echoed around the white-tiled room. It changed everything he’d planned for the evening, and now instead of getting the work done, he’d be chasing her.
He usually experienced a twinge of guilt when he executed this procedure and glanced about him. But no one could see; he’d insisted there be no cameras to record his actions. His work was top secret, but this aspect of research he kept secret even from the State. Within touching distance of a significant medical breakthrough that could change mankind, he’d allow no one to interrupt his work. Once he had incontrovertible proof, he would inform the State of his findings and not before. Success would be the pinnacle of his career and elevate him to an untouchable position in the State hierarchy.
He tried her number, but again no answer. She’d benefit from his work, and she’d promised to behave, but her erratic behaviour could destroy everything they’d striven for. And one misstep would endanger her life.
Using a scanner, he pinpointed her location and considered going to find her, but that always created problems between them. A shake of the head and a kick at a stool, sending it toppling, released his pent-up anger. Perhaps he should go straight home and wait for her instead of checking the latest specimen, which meant a forty-minute round trip. But he convinced himself her nocturnal perambulations were probably innocent.
His mind made up, he wished Tom, the night security guard at Evolution Industries, a good night and went off whistling as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
Tom was used to the comings and goings of the scientific head of the State’s Directorate of Vigilance and trusted him implicitly. He still owed the pre-eminent neurobiologist and physicist a debt of gratitude for finding his granddaughter who had disappeared, believed dead. As the controller of the State’s microchipping programme, he’d used all the resources at his command to track her down. That was unheard of for an ordinary person. Tom believed chipping necessary. If you had nothing to hide, you had nothing to fear.
