The Ward

by S. L. Grey

  Lisa comes up behind me. ‘What’s there?’

  I draw the curtain wider and show off the wall. ‘We went quite far down in that lift getting here. We’re probably underground.’

  ‘It’s like we’re in a casino or something,’ she says. ‘Like they’re deliberately trying to deprive our senses. Why do they bother with the curtain?’

  ‘It must be something to do with these… experiments they’re doing.’

  The receptionist appears again. ‘Please proceed into the chamber.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say to her. ‘Do you know what time it is?’

  ‘Meeting time.’

  ‘No, I mean, what time?’ I tap my wrist where my watch used to be before that fucking Nomsa bitch stole it.

  She looks at me blankly then cocks her head like I’m telling a joke she’s not getting. ‘It’s meeting time, Donor,’ she repeats, the smile not wavering.

  ‘Come on,’ Lisa says, and touches my hand. ‘Let’s do this. But keep calm, okay, Josh? Losing your temper won’t help anything.’

  ‘Call me Farrell,’ I snap. ‘Only Katya calls me Josh. And don’t worry, I know how to win an argument. I didn’t grow up in some Natal backwater.’ Since when has Ms Inferiority Complex started dishing out advice?

  We enter the meeting room, followed by the receptionist, who closes the door behind her.

  Four people in business suits are seated at the end of an expensive minimalist thirty-seater table, and the receptionist ushers us into chairs a few places down from them. At the head of the table sits a gaunt man with a hypertensive purple cast to his skin. The skin sags as if it’s too large for his bones, and at first glance the folds make him look ancient, but then I realise the skin itself is smooth and soft, barely marked apart from that even bruise colour. He has a full head of silver hair. To his left sits a woman with a blonde bob and a power suit, just as sharp and tight as the receptionist’s. A flight of goosebumps ripples down my neck and spine. The whole left side of her face is scarified and tattooed, while the right is a little slack and looks too young for her eyes. Opposite us are two men in white-collared blue shirts and gold-buckled braces, their jackets slung over the backs of their chairs. One of them is fat and ashen, and judging by his constricted breathing I’m guessing he has to be ‘Federal’ from the bathroom. That means the other, dark-haired one must be ‘Mutual’. And, Jesus, what I took to be a full head of greased-back hair is actually an expertly rendered tattoo drawn onto his pale bald pate. ‘Federal’ wears a pink tie and ‘Mutual’ green.

  The receptionist takes her seat across from us and poises her fingers over a thin electronic tablet.

  It’s the blonde woman who talks first, reading from a file in front of her. ‘Thank you for attending, Client Cassavetes. For the record, this is an expedited reassignment and procedure reversal application hearing under Ministry of Modifications ward procedure grievance protocol 34a, section 93, for Class I or Class II temporary residents authorised by transfer agent codename Nomsa Makgatho on behalf of Node 2:34:765/citizen Client Lisa Francina Cassavetes. All correct?’

  The blonde looks up at Lisa and smiles. The buttoned panel on her constrictive blouse flattens her chest, smothering any hint of breasts. ‘I’m Senior Grievance Secretary Ada Gass, and we have in attendance Auditor Abacus’ – she indicates the purple man, who grunts softly – ‘and medicalaid representatives Federal and Mutual.’ They nod.

  ‘We have Assistant Foundation monitoring, Client Cassavetes submitting and’ – she looks down at her notes – ‘Donor Joshua Alphonse Farrell in attendance. Why exactly is the Donor present, Client Cassavetes?’

  ‘Um… he… he…’ Lisa stammers. She blushes again, and I have to look away.

  ‘What I mean to ask, more specifically, is have we in any way disappointed your expectations or failed to live up to our mandate? Have we failed you in any way, Client Cassavetes?’

  ‘No, I…’

  ‘Are you dissatisfied with your surgery or post-operative care?’

  Lisa touches her face.

  I look across to her, pleading silently. Come on, Lisa, we discussed this. You’ve got to help me. You’ve got to help Katya.

  She smoothes her hand over her cheeks again.

  ‘She wants the surgery reversed, don’t you, Lisa?’ I say.

  ‘Donor, please. You have no status in this chamber. Your opinion as to the client’s wishes has really no legal import. Client Cassavetes?’

  Lisa looks at Ada Gass, and then the medical-aid men. She looks at the receptionist and at the purple man. Finally she looks at me. Still she says nothing.

  ‘You’re simply representing the Donor’s grievance. Is that it, Client?’ says Mutual, and he grins at Federal as if they’re about to high-five.

  That seems to snap Lisa out of her trance. ‘That’s right,’ she says. ‘I didn’t ask for this… for her face. And she didn’t ask for it either.’

  ‘That’s right, we’re also appealing on behalf of Katya Forrest,’ I say.

  ‘Donor, please!’ Gass snaps without looking at me. ‘It’s highly irregular, Client Cassavetes.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘This whole case. The early induction of the Donor is irregular; its preparatory treatment is irregular. An expensive and unwarranted facial interplant on a Client is unprecedented, your submission on behalf of a Donor while you yourself are satisfied with your procedure is irregular, your appeal for reassignment and reversal at a single hearing is irregular. Honestly, this is what we in the Ministry thought we had stamped out after the previous regime—’

  ‘Ada,’ the purple man interrupts in a hoarse but urbane voice, ‘we must not discuss politics. Especially in front of br––, uh, temporary residents.’

  ‘Yes, Auditor. I forgot myself.’

  ‘Your loyalty to the Scrupulists is in no doubt, Secretary Gass.’

  ‘Thank you, Auditor. As I was saying, this is an irregular case, Client Cassavetes, in fact unprecedented, and I don’t see any justification for authorising your reassignment or for reversing a procedure that was unnecessary and irregular in the first—’

  ‘Wait a minute! You listen to me,’ I cut in. ‘You’ll be lucky if I don’t call the police as well as my lawyers. As far as I’m concerned, I’m being held here against my will. You need to reverse that surgery immediately and let me… us’ – I remember Lisa as she nudges my ankle with her foot – ‘out of here.’

  Gass frowns as if irritated by a fly and finally looks at me. ‘Against your will? Assistant Foundation, please issue the Donor with a copy of admission form 12TG signed in its own hand and witnessed.’ The receptionist stamps and signs a copy of a document before sliding it across to me. ‘Is this not your hand?’

  ‘It looks like it, but…’ I don’t remember signing any forms, but this is definitely my signature.

  ‘This, as you can see, Donor, is your admission and transfer authorisation docket, and your legal representative is very welcome to examine it. I’m sure it will only confirm the accuracy of our records. The Ministry prides itself on its business units’ record-keeping. In fact, this Ward has been commended with a five-pound certificate in Administrative Procedure in all but one of the last seventy-three periods. You will find, Donor Farrell, that we stick to the very letter of the law.’

  ‘I want you to tell me where we are and when we can get the fuck out of here.’

  The receptionist looks up from her machine. The Auditor and Gass stare at Lisa and the medical-aid reps look at me with that mixture of disgust and pity I’ve seen elsewhere in this place. It’s underlaid with a palpable feeling of threat. Bad move. I shouldn’t have lost my temper.

  ‘Ms Gass,’ says Lisa, ‘can we fix this? What must we do to have the surgery reversed and go home? You can’t just deny the request because it’s unprecedented. Surely you must consider each submission according to its merits?’

  I glance across at her. Where the hell did that come from?

  ‘As I was saying, C
lient Cassavetes,’ Gass resumes, ‘the facial interplant between you and Donor Forrest was entirely unnecessary, and the agent and surgeons responsible have been reprimanded for their disregard and for squandering valuable Ministry time and resources on what amounted to nothing more than a game. This Ministry does not play, Client Cassa vetes, unlike other—’ The Auditor grunts, and Gass gets back to the point. ‘For this reason, the Auditor is prepared to grant the reversal request.’

  ‘Oh, thank God,’ I sigh.

  ‘Clients have their rights, according to the Charter, and we have no reason not to proceed with the reversal. Only to note, of course, its unprecedented irregularity.’ She looks at Lisa again, confused or disappointed. ‘If you are entirely certain…’

  The last thing I need is another moment for Lisa to think. Lisa says nothing and at length Gass continues. ‘The interplant appears to be primo work, although the plasma dressing does seem to have, uh, mislocated itself somewhere.’

  She turns to me. ‘Despite your… misgivings… about our scrupulousness, Donor, you too have your rights. Client Cassavetes has successfully submitted on your behalf and all that remains is for us to invoke your upside legal standing – such that it is – to guarantee commensurate payment. This is why we have the medical-aid representatives with us today. They can help you understand your options. We’ll leave you to it, then, and Assistant Foundation will have your reassignment paperwork ready for you when you’re done.’

  Gass waits for the Auditor to haul himself out of his chair, and they leave the room, followed by the receptionist.

  Federal and Mutual each slide a thick folder across the table to me. Mutual turns on a million-dollar grin. ‘The reassignment product available to upside citizens is the Donor Swap payment method. This is our brochure describing the policies available under this product and the repayments required. I’d suggest you spend some time reading through the literature, familiarising yourself with the structures of each, and your liabilities.’

  Each brochure must be two hundred pages long. There’s no way I’m going to wade through this rubbish. ‘Whatever,’ I say. ‘Where do I sign?’

  ‘Hang on, hang on, Farrell,’ Lisa says, like she’s suddenly my business manager. She turns to the reps. ‘We’re running out of time here, Representatives. Do you think you can give us the executive summary?’

  ‘What would you like to know, Client?’

  ‘Firstly, what’s the difference between your two schemes?’

  ‘Should I answer that or will you, Federal?’

  ‘You go ahead.’

  ‘Nothing, Client. We’re owned by the same agglomeration and our benefits, payment and usury schemes are precisely the same.’

  ‘It really comes down to whether you like pink or green.’

  ‘Green, I take it, Farrell?’ Lisa nudges me.

  ‘Okay, whatever.’ I just want to sign and get Katya’s face back and go the fuck home.

  ‘Representative Mutual,’ says Lisa, ‘could you give me the CEO overview of your scheme?’

  ‘Right, Client,’ Mutual says, clearly invigorated by Lisa’s businesslike tone and interest. ‘The Mutual Medical Shortfall Insurance Donor Swap Programme involves a commitment to payment of an industry-standard 150 per cent viable donation mass within thirty-three shifts – that’s 134 upside hours – from signature. The viability criteria are listed in Appendix C and Schedule 23. The Donor’s viable mass for contract purposes is measured and notarised on discharge. Do note that, in the event of default or breach of contract, the contracted 150 per cent viable mass will be payable within three shifts after registration of breach.’

  ‘I’m not sure if I understand,’ Lisa says. ‘What mass are we talking about? Does that mean—’

  ‘Enough, Lisa!’ I snap. ‘Where do I sign?’

  ‘Right here, Mr Farrell,’ says Mutual, fingering his green tie like it’s a wad of banknotes. ‘Personals here, triplicate on the back page, initial every page of the contract, and you’re covered.’

  ‘Wait, Farrell, please. You shouldn’t sign anything you don’t understand.’

  ‘This is all a fucking sick joke, Lisa. All I care about is reversing the surgery. Let’s just fucking get to the operating theatre.’

  Mutual’s expectant expression hasn’t changed. He wants to clinch the deal as much as I do. I take the heavy pen from him and spend a few minutes signing in every appropriate spot, not bothering to look at the text. Lisa just sits next to me, shaking her head.

  When I’m done, I slide the folder back to Mutual. He removes the signed contract and slides the folder back to me.

  ‘Congratulations, Mr Farrell. You are now officially enrolled in the Mutual Medical Shortfall Insurance Donor Swap Programme. Please keep this copy of the contract and the product brochure. It details all the product features, as well as contact details of upside Client Care Centres, node quality controllers and collection centres. A pleasure, sir.’ He offers his hand, which I have no choice but to take. It’s cold and dry, like a snake’s skin.

  Chapter 20

  LISA

  We’re lying side by side in the same room and, if I really wanted to, I could reach over and touch her. She’s totally out of it, her breathing is shallow and erratic, and she hasn’t moved once since I arrived. I’m selfishly relieved that her face is once again swathed in tightly wrapped bandages, a small jagged hole ripped in the dressing so that she can breathe through her mouth. There’s no way I could have dealt with another glimpse of that seeping skull face with its bulging, lidless eyes.

  Still, the rest of her is beautiful: her wrists fine-boned and delicate, her body under the covers long and slender. Lucky Farrell. Soon he’ll have the complete package back together again.

  Now, now, the Dr Meka voice says.

  ‘Katya?’ I whisper. For some reason I feel like I should be apologising to her. It’s crazy, none of this is my fault, but I have to fight the urge all the same.

  That’s your inferiority complex speaking.

  ‘Katya?’ I try again.

  Still no response. They’ve probably doped her up to the eyeballs. She’s surrounded by several softly humming machines, and a drip line containing that brownish fluid snakes out of the back of her hand. A fine tube attached to a blipping screen seems to have been inserted right into a vein in her chest. The pink-tinged liquid inside it pulses and bubbles every time she breathes.

  It’s ominously quiet, just the sound of Katya’s breathing, the thump of my heart and the occasional beep of the machine next to her bed. The door’s open, but there’s no sign of life in the corridor beyond. No sign of Farrell.

  When that brisk nurse crackling with starch and efficiency led us in here – a double room on the Preparation Ward level – after our meeting in the boardroom, she made it very clear that Farrell wasn’t welcome.

  ‘Tush, tush. No spare parts allowed in here,’ she snapped at him. ‘There’s a comfort room at the end of the ward. You can wait there.’

  I expected him to kick up a fuss and insist that he had to stay by his girlfriend’s side, but he didn’t argue. His eyes skated over Katya’s bandaged face, and without a word he slunk out of the room. No ‘Good luck, Lisa’ or ‘It will work out fine’, or any other words of comfort.

  Don’t be too hard on him, that’s his girlfriend lying there. He’s struggling to deal with this.

  He’s not the only one.

  The nurse treated me like I was an invalid, carefully helping me wash myself down and change into a clean hospital gown. I didn’t bother to question her, exhaustion and spent adrenaline leaving me limp and voiceless, but I’m regretting that now. I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been in here, waiting for whatever they’re going to do to me.

  Still, I’m tempted to slip into the bathroom and have one last look at my Katya reflection.

  Don’t go there, Lisa. For the thousandth time, it’s not your face.

  Dr Meka’s right. After this is all over, I’ll just be me again.
I try to picture my old reflection, the face that’s been staring back at me in the mirror for the last twenty-four years, but all I can call up is a blurry image, superimposed with Katya’s high cheekbones and full lips. What will I look like when I next face the mirror?

  It hits me with a jolt. Oh God. What if I wake up with someone else’s face? What if I wake up with Gertie’s face?

  Don’t be ridiculous.

  It’s not ridiculous. Maybe they brought her down here for a reason. Just like Katya, just like me. Where is Gertie? What have they done with her?

  Not your problem. Sort your own troubles out first.

  God. How much longer will we have to wait? I just want this over and done with.

  And then what will you do?

  Go home. Promise Dad that I’ll go back into therapy, take the Luvox, finish my correspondence degree, get a job and—

  Heard it all before, Lisa. You’re not fooling anyone.

  This time it’s different. This time I really think I can—

  ‘Greetulations, Client Cassavetes!’ A nurse I’ve never seen before bustles in. She gives me a professional smile, but, even though she looks to be my age, her face appears to have been Botoxed to death, and none of the muscles around her eyes or cheeks actually moves. She rustles over to my bed and needlessly starts fussing with the sheets.

  My stomach flips. Is it time?

  ‘How are you feeling, Client Cassavetes?’

  ‘Scared.’

  She tries to smile sympathetically, but the end result is as soulless as a fixed mannequin grin. ‘Don’t be headless, you’re in the Wards. You shouldn’t be scared. You should be wonderful.’

  ‘Wonderful?’

  ‘Oh yes of course. And just think, Crane will be butchering you today.