by S. L. Grey
‘Kay?’
‘Mm?’
‘How did you get here?’
She says nothing. Then, ‘I don’t know.’ I can imagine the frown on her forehead. The way her nose wrinkles when she’s confused.
‘What’s the last thing you remember? Before… here?’
‘Fight,’ she says.
‘After that.’
‘Supposed to meet Noli, and then… then… phone call.’
‘What phone call?’
‘Woman. A stranger.’
‘Was it work? What?’
She tries to shake her head. ‘She said I should come to—’
The curtain rustles behind me. ‘They’re trying to get in, Farrell.’
‘Please open the door, Mr Farrell.’ A different voice – more insistent.
‘Farrell,’ Lisa says. ‘What should we do? They’re going to break the door down.’
‘Who’s that?’ asks Katya. ‘Who’s here?’
‘Kay… it’s…’
‘Who, Josh? Who is she?’
‘I’m Lisa. I came with him to find you. Farrell, tell her.’
‘Tell me what, Josh?’
I don’t know where to start.
A heavy pounding, a screech as the barricade shifts.
Lisa pulls the curtain aside, grabs the bedside cabinet, and wheels it towards the door. She slams it against the chair that’s braced against the handle, but the furniture is flimsy and cheap.
‘You haven’t got long, Farrell,’ she says.
‘Long before what?’ asks Katya.
I could have only seconds here. And I need to know.
‘Stay as still as you can, Kay.’
I start unwinding the bandage from her face, finding the first edge, peeling the layers carefully and gently so that I don’t hurt her.
The door bangs and there’s the crack of splintering wood.
‘Donor Farrell? Client Cassavetes? Open the door.’ I know that voice.
‘What else do you remember?’ I ask Katya as I unwrap her face.
‘Nothing.’
I’m on the last layer of crepe and the bandage is stuck together, I peel it apart, trying not to see, trying not to feel anything.
‘I got so fucked up, Josh,’ she says.
One of the chairs falls with a slam. I turn around. Lisa has shoved her body against the pile of furniture to add to the fortification.
The last strand of the bandage falls from Katya’s face. A blood-clotted cotton pad covers most of it, apart from the nose and mouth holes. Her hair is stuck to her neck with dried blood. I can see the edge of the incision finely etched around the pad.
Another massive crash on the door and the latch lock comes skating across the floor. The chairs crash away and the cabinet smashes over. Lisa sprawls across the floor.
I remove the cotton from Katya’s face.
We’ll work this out. We’ll work this out. We’ll sort this out. We have to work this out. What can be done can be undone. We’ll work this out. We’ll sort this out.
Bile floods into my mouth. Katya stares at me with massive, unblinking eyes. My God. She’s got nothing to blink with.
‘Mr Farrell,’ Nomsa says in the background. ‘We made such an effort to accommodate you. What more could you want? It was I who stuck my neck out and recommended gentle persuasion, and all I get from you is this disregard and your ridiculous attempts to flee.’
All I can see is Katya, dissected like a medical project, angry strands of muscle webbed between bones, the last hitches of cotton wool stuck to her flesh like maggots, those bulbous eyes staring. Hot bile soaks the bed between me and Katya.
Lisa struggles to pick herself up off the floor, hauls herself up against Katya’s bed, looks at Katya’s pillaged and seeping face and screams.
Chapter 18
LISA
A skull slathered with raw hamburger. That’s what she looks like.
I don’t want to look again, I really don’t, but I can’t stop myself.
It’s worse the second time.
Her lipless mouth is fixed in a permanent grin, the teeth standing out huge and white in the mass of raw, red tissue. Her nose is nothing but a couple of crusted holes, but it’s the eyes that are the most disturbing. They pop unblinkingly out of her skull, oversized orbs that look fixed in horrified surprise.
I want to help her. I have to help her. Farrell’s in no state to handle this by himself. She’s struggling to rip her hands out of his grasp and he’s doing his best to keep her from touching her face, but tears are streaming down his cheeks and he’s shaking.
‘Mr Farrell,’ Nomsa says from behind me. ‘Let’s be reasonable—’
‘Stay back!’ Farrell yells, twisting his body to face her. ‘Don’t you come any closer!’
Katya manages to yank her hands free and her fingers fly to her cheeks. She scrabbles them over her non-existent nose, bats them against the skullish leer where her lips once were. ‘Joss, Joss?’ she’s saying, over and over again. It’s difficult to make out the words through her breathy, lipless lisp, but I get the gist of it.
‘Joss? Ish ere… ish ere somefink wrong wiv my face?’
Farrell shoots me an agonised glance. ‘It’s… it’s nothing we can’t fix, Kay,’ he stammers.
Then it really hits me. The sheer absurdity of it, the ridiculous horror of it, the whole twisted (go on, say it) fucked-upness of what’s happening to me, to Farrell, to Katya.
‘Josh, Josh?’ she says again.
I hate myself for the thought, but she sounds absurd, like a bad ventril oquist. ‘Is there something wrong with my face?’ That has to be the understatement of the year.
The beginnings of hysteria burble in the pit of my stomach.
And how does Farrell think that can be fixed? A facial? A bar of Dove soap and some Body Shop moisturiser?
Before I can stop them, high-pitched gales of laughter rip out of me in jagged bursts, the force of them sucking away my breath, making my chest ache.
‘Lisa?’ Farrell’s staring at me, eyes wide and mouth half-open.
‘Client Cassavetes,’ Nomsa says. ‘Would you like me to fetch you a calmative?’
Another wave of humourless, uncontrollable laughter jags out of my throat.
‘Shut up!’ Farrell roars at me.
‘Josh? Josh?’ Katya says in that same eerily reasonable tone. ‘Why’s she laughing? Josh?’
Puke rushes into my mouth. I make it to the stainless steel bucket in the corner just in time; the force of my retching so violent that it feels like my stomach is rupturing. Nothing much comes up, but as my body spasms the mask is dislodged and slithers onto the carpet. For several seconds I can’t do anything but keep absolutely still, clutching my aching stomach and trying to catch my breath.
‘Josh? Please, Josh. I’m scared. What’s happened to me?’ Katya’s voice is becoming fainter, as if she’s giving up.
‘Shhh, Kay,’ he says, his voice wobbling. ‘Shhh. It will be okay. I’ll make it right.’
‘You promise?’
Whatever happens I can’t let her see me.
She won’t be able to face it.
Another bubble of laughter threatens to surface, but this time I keep it inside. I scrabble on the carpet for the mask and, keeping my head down, push my way into the bathroom. I shut the door, and then lock it.
I run the tap, guzzle gulp after gulp of cool water, washing away the taste of vomit. I know I should reapply the mask. Go back into the room and help Farrell with Katya, but I need to get my act together first.
I need to calm down.
I press my forehead against the cool glass of the mirror.
Now put the mask back on and leave.
But first I just need to see. Just for a second. I raise my head and gaze at my reflection.
In this sharp, bright mirror, it’s unbelievable. A thousand times more perfect than I remember from that first look.
The skin is a shade or two darker than mine �
� olive skin – so flawless that it almost looks airbrushed. The only imperfection is a tiny scar just above the perfectly plucked left eyebrow. They’re my eyes for sure, that muddy brown I’ve always hated, but the lips, the nose, the cheekbones are far more polished and refined than I ever dreamed of.
I pull my hair back. There’s a faint line along my jaw and around my hairline, like the tidemark left after applying a too-dark shade of foundation. There’s no sign of stitching or even faint scarring. I press my fingers over my cheekbones, chin and forehead. The bone structure beneath has definitely changed, but I’m still not feeling any pain.
How did they do this? I’ve seen a couple of documentaries on face transplants and they looked swollen and fake and awful. But this… this is something else. How could they do this without any scarring or swelling or blood or pain?
It’s impossible. It’s too perfect. There’s not a surgeon in the world who could perform such a flawless transplant.
I turn my head to the side to check out my new profile. What would it be like to look like this all the time?
You can’t think like that. It’s not your face.
I tilt my head to the side and pout my lips. What would it be like to walk into a room of strangers looking like this? Their glances admiring instead of disgusted, their eyes gleaming with envy or—
‘You fucking bitch!’ Farrell shouts.
Something thumps against the bathroom door.
I fumble for the lock and pull it open. Nomsa is slumped on the floor next to the door, holding the side of her face, and Farrell is standing over her, his breath escaping in ragged bursts.
He doesn’t even glance at me. ‘What the fuck is going on here?’ Farrell screams at her. ‘What the fuck are you people up to?’
Nomsa raises a hand. ‘Mr Farrell—’
Farrell draws his fist back and I leap over Nomsa’s body and grab hold of his arm. He’s trembling, and his skin is slick with sweat. I’m expecting him to turn on me, push me back, maybe hit me, but he doesn’t. He stands frozen, as if he can’t believe what’s he done, staring down at the nurse on the floor.
Nomsa gets to her feet, adjusting her skirt as if nothing has happened. Her expression is blank, and she shows no sign of pain or even a flicker of anger or fear. She absent-mindedly wipes the dribble of blood that’s dribbling out of her nose with the back of her hand and rubs it onto the front of her crisp white skirt.
She cocks her head to one side and clucks her tongue. ‘Now, Mr Farrell, I understand that this must come as a shock.’
‘A shock?’ he says. ‘A shock? Are you fucking mad?’
Nomsa smiles calmly and for a second I’m sure that Farrell has hit the nail on the head. She is mad. She must be.
‘What are you people doing in this place?’ he says. ‘What the fuck are you doing? What do you want with us?’
Nomsa sighs. ‘You were scouted, Mr Farrell. Chosen.’
‘Chosen by who? Chosen by what?’
‘By the Ward Administration, of course.’
‘You’re not making any sense. Is this some sort of sick experiment you people are doing here?’ He taps the side of his head. ‘Fucking with our brains? Seeing how far you can push us?’
‘I assure you that that is not the case,’ Nomsa says. ‘It really is best if you just accept this situation at face value, Mr Farrell.’
‘You can’t do this to us! To me! I’m somebody, I’ve shot Sophie fucking Ellis-Bextor, for fuck sakes! And Kay… Katya is… She’s…’
‘Mr Farrell—’
‘I’ll go to the police!’
‘Oh, Mr Farrell, you don’t understand. The police can’t help you here.’
‘Why not? Are they in on it?’
Nomsa actually laughs. ‘In on what?’
‘Whatever you’re doing here.’
The door bursts open and a male orderly enters the room. He holds a large metal syringe in his hand. He’s huge and square-jawed and his eyes have a vacuum of cold blankness behind them.
‘It’s under control,’ Nomsa says, waving at him dismissively. He steps back, but doesn’t leave the room.
‘Put her face back on,’ Farrell hisses to Nomsa. ‘Put Katya’s face back. Make it right.’
Oh God. The room is beginning to flip in and out of focus, and I have to bite my tongue hard to stop from laughing out loud again.
‘I don’t have the authority to make those decisions, Mr Farrell.’
I’m still holding his forearm, and I feel his muscles tighten. ‘Who does have the authority?’ I say, amazed at how calm my voice sounds. Nomsa looks at me properly for the first time since she entered the room.
‘The Ward Administration,’ she says.
‘We need to see them. Can you make that happen?’
Farrell shrugs out of my grasp. ‘Lisa, let’s just—’
‘Shhh,’ I say to him. ‘Well?’ I say to Nomsa.
Nomsa clucks her tongue again. ‘Clients are, naturally, permitted to petition the Administration for reversal, but it’s most irregular.’
‘But it can be done?’
‘Of course.’
‘You’re saying they can fix this?’ The fight has gone out of Farrell’s voice.
Nomsa ignores him and looks right into my eyes. Her black irises are as dead as those of the orderly standing to attention behind her. ‘Are you sure you want to do this, Client Cassavetes?’ For a second it’s as if she can see right into my soul. That she can read my thoughts. That she knows what I was thinking in the bathroom.
I nod. I’m not sure at all.
‘Very well.’ She looks at Farrell. ‘And I suppose you want him to join you?’
‘Of course I’m bloody coming!’ Farrell roars. ‘That’s my fucking girl—’
‘Eeeeeeeee!’ Katya screeches. ‘Eeeeeeeeee!’
She’s pointing at me, her mouth opening and closing like a slackjawed carp. Oh God. The mask! I left it in the bathroom.
‘Oh shit,’ Farrell says, rushing to her side. ‘Katya, Kay, baby, it’s going to be okay.’
Katya gawps at me through her death mask; just staring and making that inhuman keening noise.
‘Don’t you worry, Mr Farrell,’ Nomsa says. ‘We’ll take good care of her.’ She nods to the orderly, who slips behind me and approaches the bed.
‘No!’ Farrell yells. ‘Don’t you touch her!’
‘Now, Mr Farrell,’ Nomsa says. ‘She needs to keep calm. Who knows what complications will arise if she excites herself too much?’
Farrell opens his mouth to retort, and the orderly takes the opportunity to jab the syringe into Katya’s arm. Her eyeballs flip up into her skull like barrels in a slot machine, but she carries on wailing.
Tears are streaming down Farrell’s cheeks. He strokes her hair, careful to avoid touching the raw flesh of her face. ‘I’ll be back, baby. I’m going to make them fix this, you’ll see.’
Her screams start losing their power, dissolving into a short-breathed whimper.
‘Mr Farrell?’ Nomsa says. ‘Shall we?’
He glares at Nomsa and stalks away from the bed, pushing past us roughly. I don’t look back at Katya as I follow Nomsa out of the room.
Farrell is leaning against the corridor wall, his eyes shut, his fists clamped in his hair.
‘This way, Mr Farrell,’ Nomsa says, moving past him.
He snaps into life, catches up with her and grabs the back of her uniform. ‘You’d better make this right, bitch,’ he hisses. ‘You’d better make this right. Or I swear to fucking God almighty that I will fucking hunt you down and kill you. Do you hear me? Do you?’
She wriggles out of his grasp and readjusts her clothes. My eyes are drawn to the brown smear of dried blood on her skirt. ‘Mr Farrell, let me be clear. I am assisting you. If Client Cassavetes wants you to accompany her to see the Administration, then that is what we will do. She has the right according to the Ward Users’ Rights Charter.’ She smiles her cold, professional smile again. ‘I could
always take you back to Preparation?’
‘Come on, Farrell,’ I say. ‘We don’t have any choice.’
We follow Nomsa into the lift. She plucks a key out of her pocket and inserts it into a slot below the control panel. None of us speaks as the lift grinds into life and starts moving. Downwards. My head is beginning to hurt again, a dull, throbbing ache. I don’t know whether it’s a lingering effect of the drugs or simply my battle to stay sane.
The doors slide open and we step out into what looks like the lobby of an extremely plush office. Everything – the walls, the floors, the chairs, and the large S-shaped desk in front of us – is carved out of pale-pink marble. It’s cold under my feet and the air con blasting out of the ceiling makes me shiver. A woman suddenly pops up from behind the desk. Her hair is bright yellow and lacquered into a beehive and she’s dressed in a smart blue suit with huge shoulder pads. There’s some sort of device stuck to the side of her face, some kind of hi-tech earpiece. As we approach I realise that it’s actually sewn onto the side of her face with thick black thread. After what I’ve seen the last few hours, I can’t bring myself to feel even a flicker of disgust.
‘Yes?’ she says to Nomsa.
‘Request for fast-track Administrative Intercedence. Client Lisa Cassavetes.’
The woman looks at me and twitches her lips upwards. She points to Farrell. ‘And this is?’
‘Donor Joshua Farrell. He’s…’ – Nomsa waves a hand around her head – ‘enmeshed.’
‘This is most irregular. Have you completed a mid-level station-elevation document and put in a request for a pre-interference form?’
‘No. This is a special case, code purple, and I cannot be responsible for any delay in its administration. I will file the requisite documentation post hoc.’
The woman purses her lips. ‘It is most irregular.’ She mumbles something into the earpiece sewn to her face, then looks down and skitters her fingers on what sounds like a keyboard. She sighs and shakes her head.
Nomsa turns round and rolls her eyes at me, as if we’re just two ordinary people dealing with a bureaucratic mess together. Next to me, Farrell is standing absolutely still, his head drooping, his eyes fixed to the floor. He looks like I feel – exhausted, bewildered and utterly shell-shocked. I reach over and squeeze his hand. It’s cold, and he doesn’t respond.
