by M. Suddain
‘Wow, Boss. Just wow.’
‘I know. I’d gone mad. In some ways I was madder before the Fair than after it.’ But I couldn’t make myself turn back. And because a man called Lance had made arrangements, and not a man called Beast, I found myself at a table with a dozen of the worst people imaginable. The celebrity chef Quervo Quaino was there, looking like a latex sex doll dipped in bronzing solution. And the conceptual chef Ani Toxi, wearing a blindfold.
‘Fuck, seriously?’
And Telepost critic Admiral Schnooley was there. Sulking like a baby. And there were some contest winners from the public there, too. Lance got me seated between two of them.
‘The fuck?’
‘I know.’ So by the time we got to Nanše’s floor I felt sick from the sudden elevation, and from the unbearable food, and even more unbearable conversation. The noise of the hydraulic pistons was astonishing. People would clamp their hands over their ears and scream whenever we went up a level. The air was filled with steam and hot engine lubricant. It was all mad. I’d made a decision that my plan was stupid, and I had to leave. But I wasn’t exactly sure how. So after our main I made a limp exclamation about the red-wine sauce on the steak, which, if I’m honest, was good, but not world-smashing. It was like meeting a harmlessly dull person at a party. You wish he could be more, though you’re grateful for the company. I called for the cook responsible. A spasm went through the crowd. We were at the main table, but there were several dozen more filled with lesser VIPs and contest winners. When little Nanše came out and saw me sunlight didn’t invade her face at all, she just said, ‘Of course it’s you.’
‘Hello, Nanše. Lovely to see you again.’
‘You too, John. I got your letters. All one thousand of them. When a girl says everything’s fine, she means it.’
It was hardly a thousand. I let it pass. It was hard enough to see her again. ‘As you know, I’m the one they call the Tomahawk.’ Why was I talking to her like an amateur magician? Still, I heard a ripple go through the crowd, and it buoyed me a little.
‘Yeah, I know, John. We were best friends, remember? I kind of have to get back. We still have desserts.’
A little over a thousand faces were staring at us. The contest winner beside me held a brimful spoon just below her chins. Ani Toxi said, ‘The famished man hears nothing.’ We all ignored her.
‘I won’t keep you Nanše. I just wanted to say that I’ve tasted many sauces in my international travels, and yours have an indescribable quality.’
‘Right. Thanks. Why are you talking so loud?’
‘Your sauces are lighter than air.’
Then, before Nanše could take that compliment the way it was meant – as a compliment – the fat woman dropped her spoon in her bowl and said, ‘Oh, I agree. Darling, the sauce on the shellfish was a little on the light side. A little … what’s the word?’
‘Insubstantial?’
‘Yes! Thank you, Francis.’
‘No, that’s not actually what I meant at all, I –’
‘Really? Because I found the sauce on my beef a little hefty.’
‘That’s true, hefty and salty. Brackish.’
‘Brackish! That’s such a great word.’
‘The sauce speaks. The word is “incorporeal”.’
‘I don’t know that word. I’m sticking with brackish.’
‘Who’s speaking?’
‘No, listen, none of you are listening. What I meant was, Nanše, your sauces have an indefinable quality seldom –’
‘Not indefinable, darling, no. Hefty. Your sauces are definably hefty, dear. I’m sorry, that’s how I am. I say it as it is!’
‘Brackish. Such a fun word to say. Brrrr-ackish.’
‘Except for the shellfish. That sauce was insubstantial. The thing is, darling, and you should take this advice from someone who’s eaten in a lot of places: sauces need substance. This is an aspect you should work on. It’s a constructive criticism.’
‘Yes, you should grow from advice like ours. We’re the people who matter.’
‘It’s our gift to you. Consider it our tip.’
‘Oh, I’m certainly not tipping these sauces.’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean tip literally.’
‘No, listen, none of you are fucking listening to me.’
‘Ooh! Language.’
‘We were all agreeing with you.’
‘No, just listen to me, Quaino, you fucking spray-tanned latex scrotum.’ The whole room was listening now. ‘What I was saying is that these sauces have a fucking quality.’
‘Yes, we all heard you, Admiral Swearington.’
I couldn’t gather my thoughts. The room was starting to spin. I couldn’t latch on to anything solid. The only solid thing in the room was Nanše’s face, and it was glaring at me. ‘These sauces are … they have a beauty. Nanše. A grace you can’t …’
‘Yes, you seem distracted, Jonathan. I’ll get back to work. But thank you for the priceless and not at all incomprehensible feedback.’
‘Is there a problem here?’ Chef Brobeard. Fuck. ‘There’s no problem at all, Chef. Amazing meal. You have my vote. I was just mentioning, in particular, the sauces –’
‘Is there a problem with Nanše’s product? She’s new on sauces.’ He had the haircut and build of an army sergeant, the tan of a brothel owner, and the moustache of an Eastern despot.
‘Absolutely no problem.’
‘I agree. The sauce on the shellfish was insubstantial, but now that we know she’s new …’
‘No! That’s not at all what I –’
‘Well, we appreciate your frank feedback, and I’m sure Nanše does, too.’
‘I doubt it. She has a sulky face and she said our feedback was incomprehensible.’
‘Did she? Well, that’s interesting. Thanks for letting me know, folks. Just enjoy the rest of your meal and we’ll make sure the bar looks after you. Nanše. Kitchen. Now.’ So she left, and the rest of the table wouldn’t speak to me, except Admiral Schnooley, who said, ‘Well, I knew the Tomahawk was brutal, but demolishing the career of a sauce chef on her first day.’
Beast was groaning and shaking his head. ‘Fuck, Boss. What’d you do then?’
I went back to my chalet in Alpine Village where I had to listen to Lance talk about dry skin, and bitchy staff, and god knows the fuck what else, until I passed out from a mixture of shame and booze and regret. The next day I went to the temporary offices of the catering company Nanše worked for. I explained the situation to the sour girl behind the desk, and she said, ‘Oh! You’re the sauce guy!’ She told me she’d been assigned to the Butcher’s yacht party that evening. ‘That’s what you get for fucking up Brobeard’s sauces.’
‘So you went out to the party to rescue her.’
‘I can’t go on, Beast. I’m sorry, I can’t go back there. It’s still too painful.’
He shrugged, pouted. ‘That’s fine.’
‘I’m sorry. Too raw.’
‘It’s fine, don’t worry about it.’ He flexed his injured paw.
‘I’ll tell you the rest one day, Beast, I promise.’ Never gonna happen. Beast is the one who recommended Lance as his replacement for the Fair. He definitely did it so he wouldn’t be replaced, but it’s also possible he did it as a kind of pre-venge on me, because I technically fired him for deciding to go to his father’s funeral instead of helping me at the Fair. I think he chose Lance because he was the biggest fuck-up he knew. And I didn’t want to tell this part of the story and have Beast say, ‘Oh no!’ like he didn’t know Lance was a fuck-up. He knew. This is just like the finger: inflict a small amount of strategic pain for his own advancement. ‘We have to focus on what’s happening here, Beast. We need to stick together. And we definitely need to stick close to Gladys. Where the hell is she, anyway?’
She still hadn’t come back from the ladies. She never would.
‘Boss, you have a little …’ He pointed to his nose. I touched my right nostril; a dot of
blood transferred to my index finger.
‘Ah. Strange.’ I pulled my handkerchief from my pocket, put it to my nose, and by the time I smelled the poison it was too late.
NOTES ON BEING DRUGGED. AGAIN.
‘Jonathan, it’s me, shhh. You’re safe.’
‘You fucking … you little …’
‘Keep your voice down, J-man, someone will hear us.’
‘… I’m going to fucking …’
‘Jogatharg! Jogatharg! Jogatharg! Jogatharg! Jogathaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarg!’ I found his fat neck easy in the darkness, pressed my thumbs down on his throat nugget, he fell to his knees. ‘Jogatharg! Jogatharg! … Jogathaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarg!’
I let the troll go limp, wiped his neck sweat on my lapel. ‘If you ever fucking drug me again, I swear …’
‘I’m sorry, I’m so saaaaaaaarkh!’ He coughed violently. His high voice was a strangled wheeze. ‘I needed to – ghaaark!’ Squatting on the floor and squawking like a great fat seabird, ‘… to see you privately. Things are escalat-aaark!’
‘Oh are they? Are they escalating?’ The fuck was I anyway? An elevator. Yes. In the dark I could see the grid of backlit buttons. They supplied the only light in there. They made Rubin’s wide, fearful eyes glow.
‘Shabazzniov is beyond himself. Now the Master is demanding answers. Do you have any idea what it means when he demands answers?’
‘No. Fuck you. I don’t have to explain myself to you, or that bald cunt.’ Rubin gave a wet gasp of horror. ‘Jonathan, you … why would you say thaaark-kof-kof-kof!’
‘I don’t care. Fuck it. We haven’t done anything wrong. We came when we were invited. We went to see about our upgrade, we had breakfast, we took an A/V tour, we made a new friend, we –’
‘A frrrrr … What the F-words, Jonathan!’ He was so choked with rage and confusion it sounded like I was still strangling him.
‘Let me ask you this, Rubin: cross-dressers. Are they trustworthy types, generally?’
You know how the rest of this conversation went, Colette, I don’t need to put it down again. We covered a range of topics, he threatened to set Mr Blades on me. So to win back ground I tormented him with Gladys.
‘Oh gods, you just said some things, then said the exact opposite! This is a nightmare!’
‘I know, Rubin, I know. Try to relax. Breathe. Let calmness in. Listen. Don’t worry about her. It’s all under control. I’ve been keeping tabs on her liaisons.’
‘Her … What? … Who is …?’
‘And I’ve been intercepting her love notes.’
‘She’s … love n— From whom? Who is sending … I need to see them.
I must see them.’
‘They’re harmless. Soft pornography: knees, snack packets …’
‘I don’t know modern speak, Jonathan. Is snack packet slang for –’
‘And I know what she’s been up to with this Hunter guy …’
‘… Who the F-words is … Gaaaahhhh! This is a nightmare!’
‘I know, Rubin, I know. This is all a patented nightmare of your making. Try to relax. Breathe. Let calmness in. Think about happy times. Think of the mornings when your mother would bring you in a bowl of milk and pinch your cheeks, and tell you you’ve got even fatter.’ I could hear him breathing slower. I could feel him sweat into the very air. I could hear the restless music of a lonely man’s beard, the hoarse rattle of his breathing. ‘How do you know about that? I never shared that.’
‘I read the journals you sent her.’
‘Who?’
‘Gladys.’
‘I didn’t send her any journ— Aaark-off-kof-kof-kof-kof!’
‘Keep your voice down, Rubin, someone will hear us. My point is, everything is fine. Gladys will be fine. Once she’s got over this little crush on Hunter. She’s out of control, certainly. She’s acting out. That’s why she’s off running around after some painted strumpet in a dress.’
‘She’s … what? My god, I honestly don’t know what’s happening any more.’
‘But we can bring her back. You and me. She thinks very highly of you, you know.’
I heard his lungs freeze over. ‘She does?’
‘Of course! I mean, she’s not the note-writing type, but …’
‘I thought she hated me?’
‘What? No, that’s all a front. Fucking loves you.’
‘Loves me?’
‘In her way. All those fire extinguishers she’s stealing are for you.’
‘I don’t … Why would she steal extinguishers for me?’
‘It’s her way.’
‘She still calls me names?’
‘I know.’
‘In our last session she called me “Professor Von Lonelywank”? … Are you laughing?’
‘Dust in my nose. Hey, she calls me pet names, too.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like … I don’t know … Gypsy McShitlord?’
‘Should I swear around her more?’
‘Maybe. Look, this is a serious business. She knows you people only brought her here to get the contents of her head. We need to work together, Rubin. We need to join forces to get her back to the negotiating table.’
‘There is no negotiating, Jonathan. She’s out of control. The Master’s had enough. He just wants her dead now.’
‘Well, then we have to get her out of here. Can we do that? Can you help me get her out of here?’
His breathing dragged in the wake of thought.
‘You can’t escape this place. No one does. I’ve tried. So many times. And the things he does to me –’
‘Sure, it must be awful. But you and me, working together.’
‘Our Master wants what he wants. You don’t want to cross him, Jonathan. They have punishments here? I can’t even …’ He performed a heavy exhalation. ‘Even talking to you about this …’
‘It’s fine. Breathe. Let calmness in. This is exactly why we need to act. You and me. Men like you and me rise to challenges like this. This is what we’re born for. We need to do what it takes to save her. Even if she doesn’t want to be saved.’
‘Yes. Oh gods, Jonathan, I’m so relieved. I thought I was alone in all this. I thought you all hated me.’ I felt a hot, chubby hand grip my shoulder, then retreat. ‘OK, come with me. I have to show you something.’ He punched the button to restart the elevator. The lights came up. The button for each floor had a label: ‘ADMISSIONS’, ‘SUBMISSIONS’, ‘LOST CHILDREN’, ‘FALLEN & FORGOTTEN’, ‘NEBULOUS INSTRUMENTS’, ‘GLADYS GREEN’.
We went up.
‘See? Sleeping like a baby. I’m in no way permitted to let one guest’s sleep-state cross over with another’s, but we’re in an emergency situation here.’
‘The fuck is this?’
‘It’s Gladys!’
‘I can see that. Did you drug her?’
‘No! She’s unihem, Jonathan.’
‘I know, like a duck.’
‘She rests parts of her brain while other parts stay awake? That’s why we can see her sleeping here, even while she’s running around the halls making mischief, stealing extinguishers.’
The girl on that hospital bed was, and wasn’t, Gladys. We were in a small room behind a door marked ‘RADIOACTIVE GOODS STORAGE. PRIVATE.’ The room was roughly twenty by twenty feet, mostly empty. It smelled of candle smoke and solvent-borne paint. My protector wore pink hospital robes with yellow flowers on them. She was connected via electrodes to a number of outdated-looking hospital machines. There was a table beside the bed with a cactus on it. There was a comfortable armchair opposite. There was an easel with a half-finished painting of an almost unspeakable nature. Perhaps even worse than his poem.
‘I repeat my initial question, Rubin: the fuck is this?’
‘Now, see, you’re going to jump to counterproductive conclusions, because of how it looks?’
‘Really? Because it looks like you’re doing weird experiments on my friend while she’s asleep. What the shit have yo
u done to her hair?’
‘You don’t like it?’ Gladys-in-sleep had the haircut of a fifty-something-year-old woman, and her face was gaudily made up.
‘And where are her tattoos?’
‘I erased them. I think she looks nicer this way? More womanly? Look, it was risky showing you this. But now that we’re a team –’
‘I did not say we were a team.’
‘You did, Jonathan. You said we needed to work together to protect her. Who else can? Not her Water Bear friends. Not these Enchanted Huntresses.’
‘You know about them?’
‘Of course. It happens every Harvest. The staff form cliques around whomever they want to be Harvest King or Queen. They give themselves odd names. You have several cliques yourself, you know: the Tomahawks, the Knights of John. The Pussy Destroyers.’
‘I’m sorry, the what?’
‘And Ms Green has her Enchanted Huntresses. They’re growing much faster than other groups. That’s another reason my Master wants her terminated. You know there’s a faint chance you two could have ended up being King and Queen together? Wouldn’t that be funny?’
‘No.’
‘I would have been a little jealous? But it’s all in fun.’
‘Never gonna happen. Especially not if she has hair like that.’
‘I think she looks perfect. Mother would have loved her.’ He gazed down at the woman on the bed. I wanted to hit him so badly.
‘Now that we’re a team, I can tell you a little more. You’ve worked out a lot of it, yes. We brought her here because we wanted her secrets. The Water Bears are one of the biggest threats to our project? I can’t say much, but some of our own prototype operatives might have carried out exploratory missions against several Bear cells? And we can’t be sure, but they might have found out? Even though we were super-careful? And if they did find out we think there’s a pretty good chance they’ll want to take this project down. Which is kind of why you’re here? There aren’t a lot of ex-Water Bears running around. In fact, we only know of one …’ He reached down to adjust Gladys’s blanket. My right hand twitched. I fought the urge. The sound of my knuckles cracking made him look up. ‘That’s why we contacted you. Because we wanted you to bring her. We manipulated things so you did. She’s super-special, Jonathan. To me. To everyone here. Only now we have her we’re divided. Some of us are saying, “Well, how do we know she isn’t actually still a Water Bear infiltrator? She might have pretended to become a private operator for years just to get a chance like this. Hiding in plain sight? Or she might want us to think that? Or she might want us to think she wants us to think she’s pretending to be a private operator? She could be a decoy, or part of a wider operation? She might be pretending to play hard-to-crack so we blunder in carelessly, release a virus she has hidden in her lovely brain-meat, hey? The only way to get to the truth is to get inside this head, and that would definitely kill her.’
