“Geordie…” she said, almost sobbing now, “I’ll do anything for that hit...” She drew closer to him, bent down on her knees, reached her hands under his dressing gown.
But Geordie shuffled away. He grabbed her wrists, held them tight, shaking her as he spoke. “Are you out of your fucking…?!” He pushed Kitty away, stood up, and marched angrily towards the window. He leaned against the glass, blowing out some air, looking across his first floor view of Lark City’s Titanic Quarter. His head was shaking again. “Get out, Kitty…” he said. She went to talk more but he turned, this time his voice raised, “Get out, get out, get out!”
Kitty slammed her fist against the $900 coffee table beside the sofa. She made a beeline for the door, head held low, swearing under her breath. She banged the door behind her, leaving Geordie standing by the window. He watched through the glass as she left the apartment block, her tiny little body swallowed up by the crowds below.
…
Titanic Quarter. A place of money. Its stink hung in the air like poisoned perfume. Yet, Kitty had nothing. No money. No dope.
She moved through the crowd, mind buzzing, stomach churning, sick with desire. Every part of her was focused on one thing: where to get that hit. Geordie wasn’t the only dealer in Lark. There were others. But they’d want more money and, regardless of how a place like Titanic might lead you to think otherwise, money didn’t come easy...
She thought of what Geordie said about her dad. Paul McBride had money. He controlled most of Lark’s black market. Everyone, including Geordie, answered to Paul McBride. She could call him up, tell him what was happening, make him talk to Geordie, convince him to give her the dope. But she hadn’t talked to her dad in years. Not properly, anyway. And this would involve a proper talk, one where she spoke instead of just nodding or grunting.
Kitty needed other options.
She thought of Charles 7, the tech hack down by the markets in Cathedral Quarter. She thought of thieving something for him, a cell or wiretap or credit card, anything she could trade for cash. She thought of her own cell, of how much she could get for it, even though trading your cell in this day and age was like trading a kidney. She was thinking of trading a kidney when she slammed against someone in the crowd.
“Hey, watch where you’re going, ye little_” An older woman glared at her. She was glamorous to a fault, decked out in leather and real fur. Her dark hair shone in the bright neon light of the street. Her face was smooth and polished, like the mannequins that smiled at you from the boutiques down by Cathedral. This was Dolly Bird.
“Hey…” Kitty said, her eyes looking down, her face blushing.
Dolly’s voice was full of surprise, “Kitty. You look… terrible…”
Kitty shuffled awkwardly, smiled. “Yeah, well…” She looked at her fingernails, scratching them with her thumb.
A billboard moved across the sky. It was playing a trailer for popular game show, REALITY EXTREME. The crowds around her stared as if hypnotised by the familiar voices of the show’s hosts, but Kitty didn’t care. This was wasting time. She didn’t have time.
She went to move but Dolly placed a hand on her shoulder. “Hey wait. Wanna grab something to eat? My shout.”
An idea suddenly dawned on Kitty. “Yeah, maybe...” she said, smiling at Dolly. “Thing is, I’m kinda in a hurry. If you sync me some cash, though, I could grab something later...”
But Dolly’s head was shaking. “Kitty, do you know how many years I’ve been an addict?”
Kitty didn’t know. She didn’t care.
“Look, kid, I’ll square with you. I’m on a break. Got a bit of time before the next client. So what say I shout you a coffee and a bite to eat. Come on, we can catch up. Hey, you know that new_”
But Kitty was already walking, leaving Dolly mid-sentence. The other woman’s voice trailed off, swallowed by the noise of the crowd as Kitty left the main square at Titanic, moving into the city’s central throughway. An excited babble greeted her, the same babble she’d hear every weekend as people began their hunt for pleasure, seeking out wine and song and whatever fetish made their lives complete.
Kitty turned onto Tomb Street, Lark’s red light district. It weaved through the city like a spooked snake, filled with peep shows and freak shows and endless parades of painted ladies, dancing like tattooed marionettes. Its main attraction was the Penny Dreadful whorehouse, a Fancy Pants brothel where stuck-up broads like Dolly Bird worked, dames who’d look down on a common street whore like Kitty. But Kitty didn’t care. She had more pressing business to attend to; that burning in her veins calling her, begging her. She needed a hit and she needed it bad.
She found Vegas. This was Tomb’s most popular bar. Converted from an old church, Vegas stood between two strip clubs, name written above its window in red neon lettering. Kitty pushed through the saloon style doors. The joint’s owner-cum-server, known simply as the Bar Man, stood in front of his taps and bottles as if on guard. He was cleaning a glass. Their eyes met as she came in, neither smiling at the other.
“Water,” Kitty said to him, but he was already pouring it. He slid the glass over to her. She lifted it.
She found her usual spot by the back of the bar; a red plastic sofa. Kitty removed the chequered cushions, as always, then sat down. Her tiny body leaned over the table in front, hands cradling her drink. She waited, fingers tapping the glass, toes dancing, cold sweat breaking across her skin, eyes alert and searching.
It was the usual crowd in tonight. The alcos, staring at their drinks, talking to themselves. The zone heads, wiretaps on faces, clear plastic coils running to their cells, lounging back in their seats, bodies shaking as the code flowed, drowning their brains in whatever VR release was doing the rounds.
Time passed slowly. Kitty could almost hear the grind of each moment, the desperate slowness of each tick of the imaginary clock in her head. Her veins felt like jagged ice now.
Kitty needed that fucking hit.
The first day was always the hardest. This was the fifth day, and while the constant puking and shitting had pretty much cleared, little of any sustenance contained within her small, washed-out body, she was still getting it bad. For Kitty, heroin wasn’t just a weekend drug. It was her whole raison d’etre. It was the first thing she thought of when she woke and the last thing she thought of before sleeping. She dreamed about it. She made plans of where to get it, how to get it, how to get the money for it. She thought about it when she was being fucked, calculating with every painful thrust just how much money the John was going to give her, and how much heroin that would buy.
Movement. Kitty’s eyes lit up. Two men heading towards the bathrooms. She watched as a third looked around nervously before following.
Kitty waited a while before she, too, got up and followed, leaving her glass of water on the table untouched. Her eyes met the Bar Man’s as she moved, but she looked away quickly. Slipped past a drunken old Throwback reaching for her and entered the bathrooms..
The bathrooms were what you’d expect in a hovel like this; grimy tiles, sombre line of cubicles facing a yellow-toothed urinal. One of the taps was dripping, its constant rhythm like a countdown, like the beating of Kitty’s heart as her mouth and lips grew dry with anticipation.
She found the three men huddled in the far corner. As she moved towards them, they stopped talking.
“Hey…” she said, her voice echoing. “You guys dealing?”
One of the men stood forward. He was tall, thin with jet black hair greased across his temples. A toothpick rattled against his teeth.
“Nope,” he said. “Now get out of here, kid.”
But Kitty didn’t move. “I’m not a kid,” she said, completely deadpan. “I need a hit.”
Toothpick looked to the others, eyes narrowed. One of the men burst into laughter. Toothpick relaxed, a wide grin spreading across his face as he turned back to Kitty.
“What’s your name, honey?” he said, eyes searching every inch of her fro
m toe to head.
“Kitty.”
He smiled, looking to the other guys. “Kitty wants a hitty!” he said, much to their hilarity.
But Kitty didn’t flinch. Her voice was urgent. “Do you have any?” she asked.
“Have any what?” Toothpick said, looking to the others who gingerly started laughing again, as if he’d just cracked another joke.
“Smack,” she said, plainly.
The three men stopped laughing.
Toothpick looked at Kitty, his face suddenly serious. He began to circle her, pacing her like some animal. And then he paused, reaching around her back from behind, grabbing her breasts, squeezing, then relaxing his grip. Satisfied, he moved down towards her crotch. But Kitty still didn’t flinch. She didn’t even blink. This was normal. This was part of the process of scoring when you went to someone else. And that was fine.
“Not much here to hold onto,” Toothpick muttered into her ear. “Skinny little bitch, aren’t you?”
Kitty turned to face him. She tipped her head to one side, looking into his face. She found his hands, pressed them against her breasts again. She tried to puff her chest out, make something more of it, all the while reaching for the zipper to Toothpick’s slacks. She found his cock, began to caress it, still looking at him with her dead, emotionless eyes. But his cock remained flaccid. His eyes grew wide, his hands moving from her breasts, pushing her away.
He looked to the other men, one of them starting to laugh again. But Toothpick was furious. He turned quickly, swinging the back of his hand hard against Kitty’s jaw. It connected, Kitty falling back, hitting her head against the off-white tiles, sliding to the floor.
Toothpick came at her again. He punched Kitty in the face, pulled back, punched her again. She took it without making a sound, eyes locked closed, lips curled up against her teeth. Both her hands were raised to her face, weakly bending against each blow.
Her nose broke with a crack.
She heard Toothpick step away.
She allowed one eye to open, finding him still towering over her, fist clenched, a half-smile-half-grimace on his face, that fucking pick still rattling between his teeth. His white shirt had blood on it. Her blood.
Kitty pressed one hand against her now bleeding nose, grimaced against the pain. She was shaking all over, her breathing laboured and heavy. She looked at the three men, awaiting their next move. Toothpick had his back turned now, the other two men just staring at her, frozen to the spot. Seemed like they hadn’t counted on this. A laugh at her expense. Rape, maybe. But not this. This was a bridge too far.
But Toothpick wasn’t done yet.
He turned to face her once more. He held a slim metal cylinder in his hand.
Silence filled the room, thick like mist.
Kitty tried to pull herself up but failed. Her vinyl drains were sticking to the tiles. She was dizzy, panicking. She looked at the other men, tears filling her eyes, pleading.
The younger man looked at her, guiltily. He placed his hand tentatively on Toothpick’s shoulder. “C-come on, man,” he said, “let’s just leave it, eh?”
But Toothpick wasn’t listening. He didn’t even look at the other man, his gaze focused entirely on Kitty. He flicked a button on the cylinder, revealing a blade. He smiled, pick still between his teeth. He moved forward and Kitty closed her eyes, raising her arms again...
Nothing happened.
Kitty waited for the pain to come, but there was nothing.
She opened her eyes and found Toothpick standing stalactite still, his face turned towards the door of the bathroom. Kitty followed his gaze. Through blurred vision, she made out the profile of a fourth man. Broad-shouldered, heavy-set.
“Don’t move a fucking inch,” the newcomer said. He walked over, helped Kitty up. “Clean yourself up,” he said quietly, without looking at her.
Kitty did as she was told. She went to the sinks. Turned a tap on, looked in the mirror. Blood still leaked from her mangled nose. She pulled some towels from the dispenser, pressing the thin cloth to her face, the pain surging through her.
“You like hitting little girls?” she heard the new voice say to Toothpick
“No, sir.”
“And yet here you are, hitting little girls...”
Kitty looked back, finding Toothpick staring at her, his eyes watering. He seemed to think for a second, then said, “With respect, sir, she’s not really a little girl.”
The newcomer looked to the other two men, whose eyes dropped immediately to their feet.
He looked back to Toothpick, said, “Well, what is she then?”
Toothpick allowed another quick glance over to Kitty. He turned back to the newcomer, said in a voice almost inaudible, “She’s a whore, sir.”
“I can’t hear you, son. You need to speak up.”
“I s-said, she’s a whore.”
“A whore, you say…”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hmmm.”
The older man looked to Kitty. “A whore,” he repeated, then looked to the other two men, one of whom smiled nervously. “That’s my daughter you’re calling a whore.”
A stain suddenly formed at the front of Toothpick’s slacks, spreading like a shadow across the crotch and down one leg. He still held the flick knife, even though it was very clear to everyone in the bathrooms that he wouldn’t be using it any time soon.
“Mr M-M-M_”
“McBride,” the older man said, “but you can call me Paul.” He glanced at the other two men, offering a smile which they both gladly accepted. “Now what say you give that knife…” Toothpick quickly handed it over, but McBride put his hands up, refusing to take it, “No, not to me,” he said, “I want you to give it to one of your friends. Doesn’t matter which one.”
Toothpick looked at the two men, his eyes darting between them. Neither of them wanted the knife but he forced it on the younger of the two, the one not wearing a suit. The younger man looked surprised, glancing over to Paul McBride.
“Go on, take it!” McBride ordered.
He grabbed the knife quickly.
“That’s good,” McBride said, smiling.
But the poor bastard looked uncomfortable, like he wanted to drop the knife, like it was burning in his hands.
“Okay, you’ve got the knife. Now I want you to cut your friend with it,” and here McBride pointed back at Toothpick.
A short whimper came from Toothpick’s mouth. Sweat suddenly broke across his beetroot red forehead. “C-come on…” he sputtered. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know it was your little girl, how would I?!” He fell to his knees, begging now, but McBride wasn’t listening.
“Get up,” he said. “Get up or I’ll have him slit your throat right now while you kneel.”
Toothpick, still crying, stood up and looked McBride face on, his eyes pleading.
The younger man was shaking his head, backing away from his friend, colliding with the other man in the suit, who looked so fucking uncomfortable that Kitty wished McBride would just let him go. But McBride didn’t just let him go. He let him stand and wait and sweat. That was Paul McBride’s way.
“Go on. Make your move, kid,” he said to the younger guy with the knife, nodding towards Toothpick.
The silence in the room was thick like tar.
Nervous bile gathered in the pit of Kitty’s stomach. Her palms were sweating, cold like ice against her bleach-white skin. She didn’t want any of this. She just wanted her hit.
Toothpick had backed into a corner, face pressed against the cold tiles of the wall, knees bended, arms curled up into a foetus position. He was whimpering, that damn pick no longer rattling, but still somehow hanging from his lips.
“Go on,” McBride said again to the younger man.
The kid moved towards Toothpick. He gripped the knife tight and suddenly stabbed Toothpick in the gut.
Both men screamed in unison.
“Again!” McBride shouted.
The kid stabbed again, and t
hen again, finally grabbing the cowering Toothpick by his shirt collar, dragging him across the tiles, mounting him and stabbing repeatedly until the screams faded and died. Only then did he drop the blade. Straddled across the body of his friend, he dipped his head and sobbed hard.
Kitty went to leave but her father’s booming voice stopped her.
The doors suddenly opened. A smiling couple staggered into the bathrooms, but one look at Paul McBride’s face, and the carnage on the floor, and they stopped smiling, retreated quickly.
McBride retrieved the knife from the weeping kid, handling it with his handkerchief. He offered it to the older man in the suit.
Vivisepulture Page 26
