Not even close.
I lean back against the wall, weakness spreading throughout my body. I can see it. Some debt collector that’s looking for that big hit. The doctors could be wrong; that kid might make it, and then they would score an entire lifetime in one hit. It would be… it’s crazy, actually. A recipe for almost certain madness and death. But I know there are collectors who would take the chance.
I place my hands flat on the wall behind me, feeling dizzy. The coolness of it seeps into my palms and reminds me that I’m not alone in the bathroom. That Elena’s watching me. The tears have finally made an appearance, trailing small rivers down her cheeks.
I have no idea what to say, so I just bring her into a hug while her body shakes the tears out. She doesn’t make a sound. I catch sight of myself in the mirror behind her, flat against the wall above the sink. I look like hell—eyes dull, cheeks too hollow. Like someone who’s been on one too many benders trying to forget what he does with his days.
I hold Elena until she stops moving and kind of eases into me. I keep holding her an extra few seconds until I can pull myself together and have something coherent to say. Then I lean back and look her in the face. Most of her tears have been wiped on my shirt already, but I brush away what’s left with my hand.
“I only have a few days.” My voice is a whisper. “My cut from the last transfer. It’s just ten percent of about six weeks.” I do the math in my head. “Just a little over 4 days.”
Her shoulders slump. “That’s all?”
I don’t know what she expected, but that’s all I have. There’s a painful wrenching in my stomach. I need to give her something more. “She’ll get the full four days of extra life, but she’ll feel better too. Right away. Right at the transfer. I… I’m sorry, that’s all I can do.”
She nods, staring at the spots on my chest where her tears have stained it. Then she looks up into my eyes. “Thank you.”
Her sad look is killing me so I lean over to punch the button to open the door and pull her out into the one-room apartment with me. I walk slowly over to the sister. I can’t remember her name… wait, it’s Tilly. She’s in the same state as we left her. I kneel next to her at the couch, suddenly unsure. I’ve never paid out to a sick person before; that’s a whole level of debt collector above me. It requires special training and supervision by doctors. What I’m about to do is completely illegal on several fronts—mercy hits are strictly forbidden; unsupervised medical needs transfers are illegal unless it’s an emergency; and I’ve already paid out Mr. Henry’s debt, except for my own cut. That’s the least of my sins, giving away my own ten percent. It’s well known that debt collectors barter away their cut all the time. It’s not legal, but you’re not likely to go to prison for it either. Mostly because it’s small time: a day or two.
Or four.
It’s not enough. As I look down at Tilly’s sunken cheeks and gray skin, I know it’s nowhere near enough.
Elena crouches next to us.
“Can you wake her?” I ask. “I don’t know… I’ve never paid out to someone who wasn’t conscious.”
Elena nods and gently touches Tilly’s face, petting her cheek and calling her name. The girl sleepily opens her eyes and blinks several times. Finally, she hones in on my face. A tiny, adorable frown shows up between her eyes.
“Who are you?” Her voice is just an echo, the remnant of something stronger.
“My name is Joe.”
“Hi Joe.” Until I hear her say it back, I don’t realize I just gave her my real name.
I swallow. “Hi.”
“Are you the debt collector?” There’s a tremble in her voice.
I shoot a look to Elena, and the lack of shock tells me she already told Tilly her plans. Or at least a portion of them.
“Yes, but I’m here to help you,” I say to Tilly. There’s something about her large brown eyes—like her sister’s, only more world-weary than any ten-year-old’s should be—and I want to tell her everything. “I collected the debt of a man named Mr. Henry. He didn’t have a lot of time left, but he wanted you to have it.” He would have, if he knew. I’m sure of it.
She gives a weak smile. “That’s really nice.”
I’m finding it hard to speak over the lump in my throat. “Yeah. It is.” I take a breath. “I’m going to touch your forehead, okay? It’s not going to hurt. In fact, it should feel kind of good.”
She looks at me like she doesn’t know whether I’m telling the truth about the pain, but that it doesn’t matter to her. I can only imagine how much pain she’s already had to deal with in her short life.
She nods, and I lay my palm on her head.
It’s only four days, so the transfer is quick, but I still feel it, a pull from the very center of me, draining out, leaving through my hand and moving into her. But it doesn’t hold the deep despair I normally experience. I don’t cramp up or feel like ripping my hand off so I can run from the room. It’s there, I feel it, but it’s not… bad. Just emptying, and there's something else, something warm, in its place. I sense when all of my cut has drained into her, but I don’t pull my hand away. I want to give her more; just a little more. I’m not even sure why. I can’t give her enough to heal her. I don’t have enough in me, even if I drain every day of my life and give it to her. It wouldn’t be enough to overcome the disease without something more, like a cure or medical treatment.
But I want to give her more than four days.
I pulse life energy into her, and suddenly it’s gushing more than I expect. It’s emptying me, and the warm feeling in my chest is growing with it. I quickly pull my hand free of her head. I’m not sure how much I’ve transferred to her. More than four days for sure. Maybe a few weeks? It’s hard for me to tell. I’ve never done this before, never dipped into my own life force. I look at my arm, where the tracker is buried deep inside. That could cause some serious problems later, but I can’t think about that as nausea hits me in a slow, rolling wave. I teeter a little, but when I look at Tilly, all of that is forgotten.
Her cheeks have lost the gray and are shining with rose, almost like she’s a painted doll with too much blush. The dark circles have disappeared from her eyes, and a little smile is playing on her lips. I glance at Elena; she’s covering her mouth with her hand, smiling and crying at the same time.
“Hey, Joe,” Tilly says. Her voice is clear, not trembling like before. “You were right. It does feel good.” Her broad smile does something to my insides. I scramble up and stumble toward the bathroom.
I’m breathing hard, bent over the sink, and I think that maybe I’m going to throw up, but it’s not that kind of feeling. The warmth inside me has grown—it’s a fullness, a brightness, like I’m holding a small sun inside my chest. After a moment, I decide it actually feels good.
I look in the mirror again.
If I looked like hell before, now I look like I’ve got one foot in the grave. The circles are under my eyes now, instead of Tilly’s, and my cheeks are even more sunken. The wave of nausea hits me again, and I double over. I’m not going to throw up, but my legs don’t feel steady, so I push away and sink to the floor, bracing my back against the wall.
I feel like shit, but I don’t regret it. Not a bit. That fiery hot sun inside is burning me and filling me. It’s good and clean and pure. I’ve never felt anything like it. It's better than a life hit, not jittery with the energy of a hundred men. It fills a hole I didn’t know I had, and it burns with a righteousness that frightens me. I’d give away my own life, every day and year of it, to keep hitting that feeling again and again.
Part of me wants to crawl back into the room and give Tilly more.
I rub my face, and it hits me. The repeated warnings we got in training about mercy hits, why they’re so strictly off-limits. Mercy hits aren’t just illegal, they’re wildly addicting.
Elena comes to the doorway, and I hesitate to look up at her. I’m shaken, and I don’t want her to see me this way, but suddenly sh
e’s on the floor with me, straddling my legs and grabbing my cheeks with her hands.
Her lips attack mine, devouring me. She buries me in her apple-scented hair. My hands fly up to hold her, my mouth responding before I even realize what’s happening. My knees slide down, making room for her body as she presses it against me. The crinkling vinyl of her coat rides up past her hips, and the metal clasps scrape against my chest. Her tongue invades my mouth, and I taste her, all sweetness and heat.
I want this, all of this. I need this like a drowning man needs air.
She pulls away, and it feels like being ripped in two. My chest is heaving, and I’m light-headed with all of it. I look at her soft brown eyes. I want this more than anything I’ve ever wanted before, with more wanting than I knew was possible. I would give anything for this. I would give everything for this. I would give until I had nothing left, and I would die a happy man. But I would still be dead.
I understand why the mercy hits are forbidden.
Elena smiles and arches backward to reach the button to close the door, putting her body on display for me. My hands hold her waist. My eyes drink in her bare legs and the white-lace panties peeking from under her coat. My mouth waters with need.
She succeeds in closing the door, turning back with a smile. Her hands tug on the clasp that’s ridden up to her waist, working to get it open.
I have to get out. I have to leave now. Or I’m never going to.
I grab her wrists to stop her. She looks at me with questioning eyes. My body is weak, and I’m barely able to lift her off me. I have to grab the edge of the sink to pull myself up to standing.
Elena’s watching me from the floor. “Are you okay?” she asks, negotiating the vinyl coat until she’s standing as well.
Am I okay? No. I’m very not okay.
“Don’t,” I say, my breath wheezing even worse than I expected. I hold up my hand to keep her at a distance, as much as is possible in the cramped bathroom. “Don’t ever contact me again.”
“But I…” She looks confused, then very serious. “But I promised.”
She thinks she owes me the sex. I almost laugh, but I’m afraid I might lose my resolve. I wave her off and brace myself on the doorjamb as I punch the button to open the door. My legs don’t seem to be working right, and I nearly fall as I hobble out of the bathroom.
“The hit is on the house,” I say as I head for the front door. I’m gaining speed by the time I get there, but she’s right behind me.
“Joe!” She’s keeping her voice low, probably so she doesn’t alarm Tilly. “Wait!”
I'm halfway through the door, when she stops me by grabbing my hand. It’s warm and soft and the feel of her lips and body on mine floods my senses. It almost works. I almost stay.
I push her hand away and clench my fists to keep myself from taking it again. I look her in the eyes. “Don’t call me. Don’t find me. Don’t… just don’t. I can’t see you again.”
That last part is the honesty, and I will her to hear it. I can’t do this. I can’t. It will kill me.
I lurch out of her doorway, and I’m relieved when I get all the way to the elevator without her saying anything. I don’t look back and take a detour to the stairs so I don’t have to stop my forward momentum, one step at a time, carrying me away from the hot, burning temptation that fills that tiny apartment.
I fight the tremors and the nausea and the aching desire to turn back during the whole Metro ride home. It’s not until I slam open my door and pound back three shots of Moe that I think I might be safe. I throw the shot glass across the room, and it smashes into a thousand invisible shards on the floor. I start drinking straight from the bottle.
Eventually, the vodka takes me, and I know I’m safe for the moment. Safe from the temptation because I couldn’t get up off the couch if I wanted to.
When I come off the bender, I’ll find a new place to live.
And then I’ll start working on forgetting the apple-scented girl who almost killed me.
I hear the screams as soon as the elevator doors open.
It’s a woman—I know that even before the high-pitched sound jerks me to a stop. I’m frozen inside the elevator, my jackboots welded to the floor, my hand braced against the stainless steel wall. The liquid-metal feel of it chills my palm. My right palm. The one I’m going to use on the woman whose wails are bouncing off the walls of the oncology ward. We all come into the world in this agony: first our mothers scream their pain, then we wail our own in that first breath of life. It’s a wonder more of us don’t leave the world the same way.
Mrs. Riley is screaming because I’ve come to collect her debt.
I shudder, and it vibrates my hand against the wall. I should call my psych officer, tell her I’m sick. It wouldn’t be a lie. I’ve had a couple of vodka benders since my most recent collection, and the last time I looked, I resembled a half-animated corpse. But drinking my way through the week isn’t what’s drained the life out of me. Vodka doesn’t make me feel like the marrow has been sucked out of my bones, as if they’re empty of life and might snap if I take too vigorous a jog to the bathroom.
That hollow feeling is the hangover I get for giving a mercy hit to a dying girl; a hit that almost killed me. Some mornings I almost wish it had, but then I see that thought for what it is: a one way ticket to the madhouse the psych officers call The Retirement Home. Even on a good day, collecting feels like playing roulette. Red, I’m good for another day. Black, and I’m free-falling into a bottomless pit. Today doesn’t feel lucky. I should get another debt collector to take my place, but the truth is, I need my cut. I need to fill out my bones before I break altogether.
The doors start to close. I bang my hand against the edge to stop them and lurch through the open space before I can change my mind.
The screams fade, and I beat back the hope they’ve finally calmed her. The nurses try—I can’t fault them for not always succeeding in an impossible task. Preparing someone for collection has to be the shortest straw in nursing assignments. They don’t send newly minted nurses on collection prep rounds, but the senior nurses are savvy enough to get out of rotations before I show up. That means the nurses on duty are usually young enough to be pretty and experienced enough to know what they’re doing.
Just the kind a guy like me would enjoy spending time with outside the hospital—except they all give me the same level of interest they would give the Grim Reaper. I don’t blame them. Everyone looks at collectors that way, and nurses have more cause than most. They witness what I do first-hand.
I lumber past the nurses’ station, empty no doubt because everyone’s been summoned to Mrs. Riley’s room. My boots are finally broken in, so they don’t squeak. The only sound is the slight irregular rhythm of my steps. I can’t tell if I’m favoring one side or the other; my entire body complains as I move, the plodding of a man with fifty years more than my actual twenty.
I mentally review Mrs. Riley’s file as the room numbers tick by, counting down to number 530. She’s one of the unlucky ones, not that anyone I visit could be termed lucky. Mrs. Riley, forty-two years old, mother of one (I’m not sure if it’s a boy or girl; the file doesn’t say). Just recently took out a business loan for her new start-up, leveraging everything she had, and then some, on the promise of future earnings. A life filled with potential ahead of her. Mrs. Riley had an MBA from some big school that specializes in that sort of thing. She had a business plan. It was a smart loan. She just came up black on the roulette wheel and got cancer right in the middle of the collapse of the textiles industry in India, her biggest supplier. It wasn’t her fault her potential got cut short at the exact same time all her bills came due.
The bean counters are the ones who tallied up her debt, I tell myself. I’m just the collector. Each silent step across the polished tiles of the hallway inches up my hope that they’ve calmed her somehow. I reach Mrs. Riley’s door just as the screams start again.
I freeze at the threshold, blasted
by the full impact of the sound.
Three nurses hold Mrs. Riley down. She’s shaken loose one of her IVs. It snarls around the snow-white shoes of the redheaded nurse holding Mrs. Riley’s shoulders, dripping a puddle on the floor. They’ve tried to strap her down, but only half succeeded. She has one leg trapped by the three-inch-wide nylon webbing across her knee, while the other leg kicks at a nurse trying to catch it. A wide reflow strap across Mrs. Riley’s chest pins one arm down, but the other flails free. The strap is one of those new materials that separates then recombines into one solid piece again, depending on how you tug on it, but the struggle has turned it into a sticky-tape mess. The nurse leans away, face scrunched, as Mrs. Riley claws at her with the free hand. The nurse seems inexperienced in dealing with frantic patients facing a visit from a debt collector.
Sedatives are only allowed when the patient requests it. Otherwise, the law specifically states that patients are entitled to meet the debt collector and live every moment right up to the end. Prisoners on death row get the same courtesy. Never mind that it would be a lot easier to collect a debt from someone who has the life in them muted by drugs. The point was to make it hard on the collector—at least that was the consensus when the laws were written. Collecting should be justified, rare, and above all, difficult. Then people—especially politicians who want to be re-elected—can talk about how collecting is humane. But then there aren’t any lawmakers who have to collect the debt themselves.
Mrs. Riley’s face is contorted with rage, but I can still see the hollows of her cheeks and the ravages of the failed cancer treatment in her lack of hair and the paper-thinness of her skin. The screaming stops when she sees me in the doorway with my black trenchcoat and boots. She gives me a look that would shrivel the heart of any ordinary person. It bounces off me like I’m made of steel, but I’ve seen that look before, and it doesn’t bode well for the collection. Better to get this done quickly.
The Debt Collector (Season 1) Page 4
