by Simon Ings
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
She looked at him helplessly. She was covered in blood, as he was. Her shrug seemed grotesquely inappropriate. She said, ‘I just didn’t know what it was I was doing. It’s all new to me.’
He showered and changed and sank down on the sofa, staring blank-eyed at the gutted apartment, the toppled furniture and bust-in cupboards.
He remembered their escape from Dayus Ram, and how afraid he’d been of her; how he had come halfway to killing her, his trained responses giving her no quarter—
Strange how things turned out. He stared at his hands. They were still shaking. He wondered what to do. As if he had a choice! Of course he would take Rosa to Rio. What choice had he, with Shama in Herazo’s power?
He sighed, got up and wandered to Rosa’s door. Rosa’s room. He’d never been inside.
‘Rosa?’ he called.
No reply.
‘Rosa, we must hurry.’
Silence.
He swung the door open.
It was dark.
He fumbled for the light. He turned it on. No light came.
‘Rosa,’ he said. Then, ‘Please.’
She minded it for him, filling the tiny room with harsh, yellowish light.
Acid-bright clothes lay everywhere; across the unmade bed, strewn across the wicker chair, hung over wardrobe doors, the air conditioner, the drying rail. The dresser in front of the window was a sea of cheap make-up: rouges, lipsticks of all colours, green to black, sticky tinsel, purple hair spray, hair grips and stick-on nails. Rosa sat slumped over the dresser, head down amongst it all, shivering, crying perhaps.
He stepped into the room and trod on a kid’s snorkel set, still in its blister-pack. Cursing softly, he picked it up and looked for somewhere to throw it. He tossed it on the bed, among the Samba and Tropicalismo magazines. He looked around him, not recognising anything.
Where was the little girl he’d known?
‘Rosa?’
No reply.
He studied the room.
Sony wafers lined the windowsill. He glanced through them at the names: Cum Dumpster, Crucial Bridging Group and Skinny Bitch: ‘You listen to this crap?’
‘Fuck off.’
He turned to her, surprised. She was still crying.
‘It’s my room, my life, fuck off,’ she said.
He wondered where to start. ‘You bought all this?’
‘Not all.’
‘Really?’
‘Some were gifts.’
‘Gifts? From whom? For what?’
She looked at him. ‘From friends. From him. From others. Now you know.’
‘I don’t know anything.’
‘You never wanted to.’
‘Rosa.’
‘We’re Rio-bound already, and you’ve not touched me once,’ she sobbed. ‘Night after night, no warmth, no love. What was I supposed to do?’
‘Do?’ He stared at her; at the coldness in her eyes. He took her by the wrist. ‘What did you do? What did you do? Why all these gifts?’
‘Christ,’ she sneered, ‘you’re worse than he was.’ She laughed. It was a horrible laugh. Humourless, with nothing of the child in it. ‘I thought we would be friends, lovers. But you never wanted a lover, did you? You wanted a sister. A sister to make over, like your precious Shama. A fucking doll—’
‘Shut up.’
‘A doll.’
He slapped her across the face, knocking her off the chair. She fell to the foot of the bed and stayed there, silent, dabbing blood from her cut mouth.
He stared at her. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I just cleaned up,’ she muttered, showing no hurt or shock, as if she had expected something like this from him.
But why? He stood there, feeling exposed, while she watched him.
At last she turned away. ‘Fuck off,’ she sighed. ‘I’ll get dressed. Then we’ll go.’ She sat up on the bed and rummaged through the clothing piled there. She picked out a red micro-skirt and changed in front of him, determined to ignore him if he wouldn’t leave.
‘What’s that?’ he said.
She glanced above her. ‘Mobile, what d’you think?’
Bird skulls spun in eccentric orbits round her head on lengths of fishing line.
‘More catches?’
‘Only birds!’
He sighed. ‘But even birds—’
‘Okay,’ she yelled, ‘okay!’ She stood up, her skirt falling around her ankles, tore the mobile down and threw it in his face. ‘What else?’
‘Don’t you wear pants?’
She slapped him, much harder than he’d slapped her, across the face. Smiling, she waited for his return blow.
He stood before her, stunned.
Her face fell. ‘Sorry,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, Ajay, I’m so sorry.’ She picked up her skirt and covered herself.
He covered his embarrassment with anger, and – because he was confused – accused her. ‘You knew you were what Rio wanted. All the time you knew. You hid your powers. You hid them from me!’
Rosa shook her head. ‘I’ve been getting stronger. When you met me, I was weak. I didn’t lie to you.’
‘Why kill Gloria?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Why?’
She stared into his eyes. ‘He was a man could dirty everything.’
‘He fucked you.’
‘And some.’
He closed his eyes. ‘Oh Jesus Christ.’
‘I thought he liked me. I know different now.’
‘Rosa.’
‘Relax. You’re safe.’
It had not occurred to him that he was in danger, so used was he to Rosa cooking and cleaning for him, a perfect little hausfrau Snow had birthed for him.
He shrugged. ‘You made a life,’ he said, ‘it’s up to you to live it. You want to run then run. I don’t think I could stop you.’
‘And Shama?’
He smiled a melancholy smile. ‘For her sake, I would try to take you to Rio.’
‘Enslab me?’
‘Whatever’s necessary.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s my job.’
New tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘I love you, Ajay.’
‘Just run.’
‘Why, so you can catch me?’
‘Take the chance.’
‘And let you off the hook?’ She smiled. ‘Oh, no. I go where you go. You’re my life. All the life I ever wanted. You spoil that life, it’s on your head, not mine.’
If he’d wanted a sign of her maturity, he had it now. ‘Stop it,’ he sighed, ‘please. Stop it.’
She fastened the skirt round her hips and stood before the window, staring out into the early evening light.
He stood by the door a while, watching her, feeling regret flood him, the unfairness: it wasn’t, after all, as if he had a choice.
He came and stood beside her at the window. He wondered what she was looking at. There wasn’t much to see, just sunset through the tall and gap-toothed hedge, the waste ground beyond, and the derelict landing strip. He turned and studied her face. Her eyes had misted over.
She wasn’t looking at things at all, he realised then, but simply soaking in the light. Sunlight was new to her, he remembered. She’d seen it for the very first time just a few weeks past. When she got to Rio, she would see the sun for the last time.
Her eyes glinted. Her gaze had lost its focus. She was crying again.
‘Rosa.’
She turned her head so he couldn’t see her face.
‘Rosa.’
‘It’s beautiful here. You’re beautiful. So many gifts.’
He knew he had been wrong, and weak, and careless. He wished now he could somehow stop her from looking. From now on, he promised himself, he would keep her on a tighter rein. That way, she would understand less about what she was leaving behind. The less she knew, the less she’d fear the strange truncation of her life: Rio’s hunger, the waiting slab.
&
nbsp; Rosa was no goddess, monster, angel, ancient power; she was a girl. He knew what girls were, knew what to do, how to behave with them. He crossed the room and put his hands on her shoulders, to turn her round, turn her into the room and away from the pretty distractions – the sun and the sky and the shadow. Turn her round. He felt her. Turn her round, he told himself. She trembled under his hands. He did not turn her. He meant to and he didn’t. Tried to, but his arms were stone. His hands relaxed, resting on her warm skin. He was looking past her out the window.
Sun.
Sky.
Shadows.
He wanted to turn her away from it all, as from too bright a light. Not because it blinded her. No: the world was blinding him.
He turned away, blinking.
She looks at things like she’s just emerged from a cave, he thought. He knew the look. It was the look he too had given the world, when he was a child. Even he had been a child once, new brainpan filled to spilling-point with an old man’s stories—
He was starting to copy her. To look at things as she did, with new eyes. It wasn’t a sensation he could afford. He mustn’t let himself be blinded by the world. He had to stay in control. He had to stay alive.
He had to.
He wiped his eyes. He had to stay alive, for Shama’s sake.
‘Get dressed,’ he said.
The car he’d hired the week before had two days left on its lease. If credit checks were being run, his rental of the car would already be known. But he had no spending power now, could not replace the vehicle, could only run on luck.
He honked the horn.
Rosa leaned out the door, long red hair in disarray. ‘I won’t be long!’
‘Hurry up!’ he shouted back. What was taking her so long? He revved the engine.
She burst out the door and staggered down the path with two overstuffed suitcases, trailing lace and leather.
‘You want us to advertise, Goddamn it?’
‘What?’ She heaved the cases into the back and climbed in beside him.
‘Well, look at you.’ Dismally, he found himself playing Hapless Dad to her Beach Urchin.
‘What’s wrong with the way I look?’
He wondered where to start. She had kohled her eyes, and applied red shadow to her lids. Her lips were coral pink with flecks of silver tinsel. Jesus Christ.
‘I wanted to dress up,’ she said. She crossed her legs away from him. The rubberised skirt flexed against her hip. She folded her arms across her breasts, lifting them and drawing them together. She’d swapped her halter top for a black dress bra.
‘And you expect me to drive?’
She turned to him and blinked her eyes; her lashes were heavy with mascara. ‘Let me have my fun,’ she said. ‘I’m happy.’
Until this evening, it had never occurred to him that she’d been anything else. But the Rosa he’d known wasn’t the real Rosa. The real Rosa wasn’t human, and yet more human than he’d ever guessed. He resisted an impulse to stop the car, push her out, free her from him and him from guilt at bearing her to death – or something like it – in Rio. Instead he said, ‘When we get there I’ll try and keep you safe. You’re more use to Rio alive than dead. But you are of use, and I can’t promise that they’ll show you much kindness.’
‘You will do your best,’ she said, trusting him more than he deserved; more, indeed, than he trusted himself. ‘I know you’ll keep me safe.’
‘And if I can’t?’
‘I know you’ll try.’
He realised he was still trying to be rid of her, to give her a chance and himself some peace. He concentrated on the road.
Rosa took his silence for doubt. ‘Please relax,’ she said. She placed green-nailed fingers on his knee. ‘This way we all get what we want.’
He glanced at her, not understanding her.
‘I get to stay by you,’ she said, ‘and you cure Shama’s broken heart. Isn’t that what this is all about?’
Ajay stared hungrily at the road, searching for a way out more secure and entire than any feedlane or highway. He didn’t know any more what he wanted. Shama put back the way she was? Of course. But was that all? Shama represented no desire. Shama’s repair was merely putting back together what he’d broken, years ago. When it was done – when Rosa was delivered into the hands of Herazo’s surgeons and specialists, when Shama’s soul was plasticised and stapled in by rare Euro techniq – what then? What did he want?
He did not know.
He’d never known.
He’d never had a will, but used his sister, year in year out, as his drive and excuse.
He knew then it would never end. There’d always be some new advance from which Shama might benefit. Something he would have to buy, killing for the necessary funds, shattering other lives to rebuild one.
It would not end with Shama’s soul. Redeemer turned collector, nothing would ever assuage him. What had started as redemption had taken on some dark life of its own. It would not let him go.
He swung the car onto a minor road between tall white stone tenements.
‘Is this the way?’
‘We’re being tailed.’
She looked out the back. ‘Who?’
‘Brown sedan. It drove straight by. Probably nothing. Being sure is all.’
The road led them out of the town and into a patchwork of farms, smallholdings and orchards. They were driving into the sun now. The light kept getting in their eyes. Rosa put on her shades. They were new; mirrored wrap-arounds, with a pink cord looped round her neck.
‘Whence the shades?’ he asked.
‘A present.’
‘Gloria?’
She shuddered. ‘No.’
‘Who?’
‘Just a boy.’
‘Tell me.’
‘A friend.’
‘A lover?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
He sighed. ‘Okay.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You had a life to lead.’
‘I never wanted it,’ she said simply. ‘I wanted yours.’
He sought her hand. She squeezed it. Her fingers were hot and firm. So like a human hand . . .
He felt strange. Unwired at last. Relaxed. He wondered where his calm came from. Spilt milk, he thought: their cover utterly undone, their concealment revealed as pointless. All powers had known where they were from the beginning. All time was borrowed time for them, and never free from prying cybernetic eyes; they still seemed free.
Haag wanted Rosa Rio-bound! It was just as he’d warned Herazo, all those months ago, watching football in the Maracanã stadium. Rosa, being Snow-built, would fill Rio with Snow the moment they plugged her in. Haag’s overplan – its domination of foreign Massives by infiltrating them with Snow – would then chalk up another victory.
Soon, Earth itself would be Snow’s womb, and every living thing would be e-choli, trapped in her gut, warm and mindless and dependent, helping her digest strange food . . .
They hit a ramp of iron sheet anchored by rocks and rumbled down and off the US 101. The feed road was badly potholed. The car’s suspension was poor. They couldn’t go above thirty. Ajay wrestled the wheel, cursing under his breath in a language Rosa didn’t know. Rosa meanwhile hung on grimly to the chicken strap, trying to not remember seafall, Mother’s pod, her sea sickness.
He said, ‘You sensed Presidio.’
She nodded.
‘Was it like Dayus Ram?’
‘She felt like Ma,’ she said, not wanting to tell all to him, who had so long ignored her. ‘An atmosphere, hard to explain.’
‘Strange I’d not guessed your power before.’
‘It’s new, as said. New-born.’ She wondered if she should tell him about her baby now. She wondered if it was his. She wondered if she’d be allowed to keep it. She guessed now. She knew the way the world worked. They’d rip it out her womb for sure, as she’d been ripped from Ma. That’s what men did.
The wind stayed
at their backs as far as San Leandro. But there was fog, just beyond the Coliseum, and a line of white personnel carriers filled the streets around San Pablo. Clumsy T-Cells slouching towards some undefined urban haemorrhage. Hemmed in by them, Ajay slipped the car into a mean-tempered second. It was dark by then. Nothing to see but the pulse of tail-lights and the thumping migrainous rhythm of the sodium lamps, slicing slowly past. Rosa was more tired than she knew. She kept half an eye on the red slime-trail ahead of them – someone was riding on his brakes like he wanted a shunt – but the rest of her was drifting among the snapped and riven structures of this new, listing, dreadful metropolis.
They entered Oakland proper on a dirt road through the transients’ quarter. Shattered towers rose up like broken teeth against pale pink and lemon cloud.
No sodium fluorescence lit these streets, but a richer more autumnal palette: bonfires of trash and tyres, derelict lean-tos on fire, the incinerating dead. Such was Oakland’s double inheritance: the Wars of Hispanic Succession then Moonwolf’s smart-rock fury. Necropoliced; Francisco’s graveyard and the melting pot of plague for years to come.
Beggar children, hardened by the breakneck dash of army jeeps, kept running out in front of the car, thinking they could make it stop and sell something. Anything. Some of them chased chickens across the road. Hoping to get them killed, then haggle for compensation. The road had no set width. It pulsed, an urban gut in permanent gag reflex. It swelled where the corporation dustcarts turned. Elsewhere the shacks of the homeless, crammed up against each other, overstepped the road’s original boundaries.
The road slid suddenly away. The car slewed close to a tent made of burlap, hit a pothole, bounced back on course. In the mouth of the tent, glimpsed too quick to register except in memory, a child looked out, mouth open, eyes too wide and clear ever to survive this place, this dust. They passed a line of old women carrying bits of furniture, chair legs, split cushions, a mattress.
Rosa leaned out the window, thoughtful. ‘They are so old, the people walking by!’ she said at last.
‘Not old. Ill. Cholera and God knows what. Picture ten men for every one, and multiply by ten. Then you’ll know how this place looked before the wars and Moonwolf.’
‘So many dead . . .’
‘Here’s towers founded on mass graves.’
Oakland – industrious city of the dead – bled past them, giving way at last to bayside lots and wide, well-surfaced lanes, all feeding onto the Bay Bridge.
