by S. L. Grey
Aren’t you the lucky one!’
‘Butchering? You mean operating?’
She chuckles. ‘Yes, yes.’
‘What will happen to me?’ I touch my face. Katya’s face. ‘Will I get my old face back?’
‘That’s not my department, Client Cassavetes, but I can assure you that you will be a happy maggot when all’s done.’
‘When do we get to see… Crane? The one who will be doing the operation?’
The nurse laughs as if I’ve said something genuinely funny. ‘Butchers don’t deal with Clients in person!’ She plumps my pillows. ‘They’re far too important for verbals.’
‘But there are things the surgeon needs to know about me.’
‘Shhh. You’re getting your intestines imbricated over nothing. We’re well aware of your Client history. Why else would you be here with us?’
‘How long, before…?’ I can’t finish the question.
She tucks the blanket covering my legs firmly under the mattress. ‘There, there. Try to repose. It won’t be long now. Shall I bring you some remedies to make you happy?’
‘No, thank you.’
She tries to move her cheek muscles again. ‘Goody good.’ She turns as if to leave.
‘Aren’t you going to check on Katya?’ I say.
‘Who?’ she says brightly.
I point to Katya. ‘The other patient.’
The nurse sniffs and glances at Katya, her face pursed with disgust. ‘Oh, that Donor is fine. We’d know if there were any kark-ups. Now, are you absolutely sure I can’t get you anything?’
Some answers would be nice.
‘No. Thanks. I’m fine.’
‘Goody good.’
She smoothes her skirt, shoots me a last stiff grimace, and crackles out.
My stomach is a cold, hard ball. My mouth tastes like rusty iron.
Pre-op nerves. You have to relax. After all, you’re an old hand at this.
Am I really going to go through with it? After the meeting with the suits, it was crystal clear that Farrell’s only interested in Katya’s welfare. He’s willing to go along with anything, deluding himself that all we’re dealing with is some warped medical screw-up.
The fear twists into a tight fist of anger. But what about me? He’s not the one who’s going under the knife, is he?
I kick the sheet off my legs. Dammit. What can I do, though? It’s not as if I have a choice.
Not true, the Dr Meka voice says. You do have a choice, Lisa. You can get up out of this bed, and leave.
And go where? What if they don’t let me leave?
Even Dr Meka hasn’t got an answer for that.
A gurgling sound suddenly erupts out of Katya’s throat. I nearly jump out of my skin. ‘Guuhhh,’ she says.
‘Katya? Katya? Are you awake?’
‘Finkso.’ Her voice is faint and blurry and I have to strain to make out what she’s saying. ‘Firsy.’
‘Firstly?’
‘Firsy. Die.’
Then I get it. She’s thirsty, dry. There’s a plastic cup and straw on the cabinet between our beds. I slither off my gurney and hold it to the slit in her bandages, trying not to look too closely at the dark hole rimmed with raw flesh, her white teeth revealed all the way up to the top of her gums. My tongue instinctively darts out and touches my lips. Her lips.
My hand is shaking, but she manages to suck some of the water onto her tongue. The rest dribbles out, soaking the bandages. I dab at the sodden dressing with the edge of the sheet.
‘Fanks. Wah ah I?’
‘Um… you’re in hospital.’
How can she not remember? Has she blocked everything out? Thank God her eyes are covered. The last thing she needs is another glimpse of her own face staring back at her.
‘Wis hossital?’
Good question.
‘Joburg.’ What else can I say? But Katya seems to accept this vague answer.
‘I cahn see. I bee in a accident?’ It’s getting easier to make out what she’s saying.
‘Um. In a manner of speaking.’
She really can’t remember what happened in that Recovery room. Or, it seems, anything that came before it.
A perfectly normal reaction to shock.
She lifts a shaking hand and touches her face. ‘Bandages.’
‘Yes.’
‘Wha happened? I had this horrible dream.’
‘Did you? That’s quite normal,’ I say, my voice straining with false cheer and sounding horribly like the nurse’s.
‘I feel funny. Woozy.’
‘You’re likely to feel a bit disoriented. Just try to relax.’
You’ve missed your calling, Lisa. Maybe they’ll give you a job here after it’s over.
‘My boyfriend… Josh. I think he was with me. The accident. Is he okay?’
‘Josh is fine.’
‘Are you a nurse?’
‘No. I’m a… patient. Just like you.’
She touches the dressing on her face again. ‘Oh God. Am I burned? My face, it’s…’
‘Yes. This is a burns unit. That’s right.’
Christ. I wish that nurse would return. I press the call button next to Katya’s bed.
Katya coughs. ‘Is it bad?’
‘Um… it’s not too bad, no.’
‘Because my face… I’m a model. I need to look… perfect.’
‘A model?’ I chirp. ‘That must be exciting.’ I’m making myself feel ill.
Why? You’re well versed in the pleasures of self-delusion.
Katya groans again. ‘God. My head hurts so bad. Is my dad here?’
‘You’ll see him soon.’
‘I need my dad. He’ll fix everything.’
‘I’m sure they’ll let you see him soon.’
‘And Josh. Need to tell him…’ Her voice wavers.
‘Katya? Can you hear me?’
‘Sowwy.’
‘What?’
I can hear her struggling to stay conscious. ‘Tell Josh… sowwy.’
‘Sowwy? I don’t understand.’
Yes you do. She’s saying sorry.
She emits a long sigh and her body seems to lose tension. Her breathing is irregular and laboured, and there’s a rattling edge to it.
I touch the back of her hand. ‘Katya?’
She’s out of it.
I can’t stay here listening to her struggling for each breath. She needs help. I press the call button next to her bed again, and head to the door to find a nurse. The corridor outside is deserted. I pace back and forth, but no one comes.
Hang on, the nurse who brought us here said there was a waiting room at the end of the corridor.
‘Farrell?’ I call.
Tinny voices are floating out of an open doorway at the end of the passageway. I pad towards it and slip inside. Farrell is sitting slumped in an armchair, his head lolling to one side. He’s fast asleep, his mouth hanging open. I’m about to reach out and shake him awake when my eye is drawn towards the television perched on a stand in the corner. That’s the source of the voices.
Oh God. A jowly man dressed in a baggy crumpled suit fills the screen. I know that man. I’ve seen him before. He’s standing in the aisle of a shopping mall, hands on his hips, his mouth down-turned in an over-thetop expression of sadness. A cheesy voice-over is saying: ‘Feeling down and brown? Tired of being a karking grey-boy freak?’
The man nods mime-style. A woman with three breasts barely covered by a fishnet vest stalks past him. She shoots him a look of exaggerated disgust and he drops his head.
‘Why look like an abnormal brown when you can modify?’ the voiceover woman says. ‘At the Wards we can make your modification dreams come true.’
There’s a shot of a gleaming hospital corridor and the camera pans past a group of smiling and waving nurses, and then, oh God, I instantly recognise the next scene. The smiling man with an amputated arm is lying on the metal operating table. So it wasn’t a nightmare after all. It wasn’
t just in my imagination. I’ve seen this exact scene before on the TV in that room I was in – just before Farrell and I tried to escape.
But this time I know exactly what it is.
A sick giggle burbles out of my throat. I’m watching a twisted homeshopping ad.
The woman with the bulging eyes appears on screen. Oh God, I really don’t want to see this again. The sound was muted when I saw it first and somehow the cheery voice-over makes it even more disturbing: ‘From simple starving-and-amputation techniques to original custom-designed re-enhancements, we can do it all.’ I know what’s coming next, but I can’t tear my eyes away. She pulls back the cloth covering the tray, revealing that tentacle thing. ‘There’s a modification to suit everyone!’
Now the man is strolling through the mall’s aisle, a fixed grin on his face. ‘Be the envy of your friends, frenemies and Shoppers.’ The woman with the three breasts stalks past him, but this time she hesitates, licks her lips and gazes at his tentacled arm with exaggerated admiration.
The man winks at the camera. ‘Book into the Modification Ward now,’ he says. ‘I did. It’s catalogue!’
Then he and the triple-breasted freak stroll away into the distance, the woman’s skinny arm locked around his tentacled limb.
‘All modifications subject to extensive credit checks and or Donordeals. Terms and conditions apply,’ the voice-over says, in the familiar fine-print rush. ‘Modifications are brought to you by the Ministry of Modifications and are subject to unannounced amendments by Ward Administration.’
The screen goes black. But next up is a flurry of applause. Synthesiser music blares and the caption ‘I Married a Brown!’ is superimposed over a shot of a wildly screaming studio audience. Most of them appear stagger ingly obese, their faces blotchy and distorted.
Jerry Springer meets Dawn of the Dead.
I can’t watch any more of this. I snatch the remote from the side of Farrell’s chair and jab the off button. Farrell snaps awake, wiping drool from his chin. He gazes around in confusion, flinching slightly when he sees me.
‘Lisa? What are you doing in here? The nurse said—’
‘It’s Katya.’
‘She’s awake?’
‘She was.’
He twitches slightly. ‘Did she say anything?’
‘She thinks she’s been in an accident. She doesn’t remember anything about…’ My hand strays to my face again.
‘That’s a good thing, isn’t it? I mean, it will make things easier when we get home.’
He stands up.
Something shifts inside me. I’m not sure if it’s the mention of the word ‘home’ or the aftertaste of seeing those sickening images again, but I suddenly feel as if I’m going to burst, that I’ll start screaming, and, if I start, I won’t be able to stop.
‘Lisa?’ Farrell’s voice says. It sounds like it’s coming from far away. ‘Lisa? Are you okay?’
I’m shaking, and I’m not sure my legs will hold me up anymore. Farrell steps towards me and I collapse against him.
He holds me up stiffly, and slowly his arms loosen into a hug. The sobs rocket out of my chest, taking my breath away.
‘Shhh. It’s going to be fine.’
Listen to him, Lisa.
But how can it be fine? Nothing’s ever going to be fine again. I know this with a cold certainty.
But it wasn’t exactly fine when you started, now was it?
‘Shhh,’ he says. ‘We’re in this together.’
‘Are we?’ I say, my voice muffled against his chest.
‘Of course we are.’
I don’t know how long I stay leaning against him, breathing in the scent of his skin, listening to the steady thump of his heart.
There’s the sound of a high-pitched siren. Beeeeeeep. Beeeeeeep. Beeeeeeep. Feet thud past the waiting-room door. The squeak of a trolley.
Loud voices.
Something’s wrong. Something’s happening.
I lean back and look up into Farrell’s face, his eyes closed. He looks so… natural. Like he belongs here. I should tell him what Katya said, that she was sorry, but he probably won’t want to hear that right now.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe everything’s going to work out. Five more minutes won’t hurt. I rest my head back on his chest and shut out the world.
Beeeeeeep. Beeeeeeep. Beeeeeeep.
PART 2 >>
Chapter 21
FARRELL
Someone’s fucked with the settings on my iPhone. I’m trying to fix its internet profile, but I give up halfway. Actually, after what we’ve been through, going online and talking inane shit on MindRead is the last thing I feel like doing. What the fuck would I say, anyway? hola MRers back from the dead – found a gr8 new recycling place
I hear a car door thump in the street below our apartment. I peer out of the window. Oh fuck, they’re early. Glenn and June slamming out of the Jaguar. Now Glenn’s saying something offensive to the car guard and I can just imagine June’s face shutting down in embarrassment. What am I talking about? It’s permanently shut down.
I drop the phone on the couch. ‘They’re here,’ I call.
Fuck. Fuck. June said they’d be here at eleven, and it’s barely half past ten. I straighten the cushions on the couch, collect the dirty dishes and pile them into the sink. I check my face in the mirror in the hall, run to the guest bathroom and pat some serum onto my cheeks. Better.
Bang, bang, bang. Glenn’s unsubtle pounding on the door. That bastard seriously thinks he owns everything and everyone, including me and my fucking apartment.
I instinctively check again to make sure that everything’s in place.
Bang, bang, bang!
‘A bit of respect would be nice, arsehole,’ I mutter to myself, then open the door.
‘Where is she?’ barks Glenn from inside the marquee-like three-piece Italian suit he thinks makes him look sophisticated. The expensive cologne and the sweat, last night’s cognac and this morning’s mouthwash waft off him in waves as he barges past me. My stomach’s still not a hundred per cent.
June hovers behind him. ‘Hello, Josh,’ she says, giving me a weak smile. ‘My, you’ve lost so much weight. How’re you feeling?’
‘Where is she?’ Glenn says again.
‘She’s sleeping, Glenn. The medication makes her very tired, but the doctor says that’s the best thing for her. I’m sure she’ll wake up soon. Can I get you some coffee?’
‘Let me see her,’ says Glenn, his voice softer. According to Katya, the quieter his voice becomes, the closer he is to hitting someone. I’m not going to be able to delay him much longer.
‘Come on, Glenn, five minutes isn’t going to make a difference,’ June says.
I shoot her a grateful smile. For some lucky reason, she’s always believed I’m good for Katya. Probably because Katya’s other boyfriends were bullying oafs, carbon copies of Glenn. June’s my one ally in that family, and Christ knows I need her on my side now.
One step at a time. It will be fine. One step at a time. We’ll get through this.
‘Coffee would be lovely, Josh,’ June says. ‘Thank you.’
I fill the kettle, keeping an eye on them from behind the kitchen counter. The scar on my right hand stings. It must have worked itself open when I was fucking around with that phone. I think of Katya smashing that glass against the counter, and how much has happened since then.
Glenn slumps back on the couch, his massive frame sagging under the weight of all those overpriced dinners and the booze he knocks back 24/7. June sits primly perched on the edge of the couch, knees together in her narrow linen Jackie O dress, on high alert in case Glenn instructs her to scurry for more milk or sugar. He checks his watch, his bracelet jangling. He always wears that fucking thing, a heavy gold chain with an ID tag reading ‘LOVER’ in a big slab serif. Meanwhile, June stares at the portrait Dennis Rossouw did after Katya came third in the New Face of the Year, Catwalk Category.
‘It’s a nice one
, isn’t it, June?’ I call over. It’s taken with a Sinar P2. Large-format camera, I think of adding for her benefit, even though she won’t have a clue what the fuck I’m talking about. ‘The quality is amazing, don’t you think?’
Glenn snorts in derision. I know exactly what he’s thinking: Fucking moffie photographer, why doesn’t he get a fucking proper job, a man’s job?
June finally glances over at me. ‘What, Josh? Oh, the picture. Yes,’ she says vaguely. I wonder just how medicated she is on any given day. ‘I can hardly recognise her.’
‘What you talking about, Juney? Can tell a mile away it’s her,’ Glenn huffs. It always annoys him when June acts concerned about Katya, when she suggests she might be working too hard or eating too little. All Glenn wants for his daughter is success, no matter the personal cost. But of course he’s never there to clean up when Kay goes off the rails. That’s left to June and me.
Hard as it is to admit it, though, he does love Katya, in some twisted way.
We spent the whole of Saturday night and Sunday just recovering, trying to feel normal: bathing for hours, eating decent food – God, I realised just how much I missed fresh fruit – and watching crap on TV. I could only bring myself to phone June this morning, and, despite the fact that it’s a Monday, Glenn blew off an early meeting to come straight here.
I pour boiling water into the plunger. I’m making organic, free-trade Ethiopian. Glenn’s one of those blustering nouveau riche bastards: ‘Only Colombian is good enough for me, and I have to taste the kids’ tears in it.’ God, if he knew his coffee was African, he’d probably spit it out.
‘What hospital did you say you were at?’ Glenn asks.
We’ve been through all this on the phone already. Another thing I did yesterday was get our story straight. ‘I wound up at New Hope. Some mix-up. But then I was transferred to Morningside, where I found Katya.’
‘And explain again why I couldn’t find you or Kat there? My people called all the clinics, every day.’
As if asking me repeatedly is going to make a difference. I will my heart to stop thumping and pray that my face isn’t beginning to sweat. Christ, as obvious as his tactics are, I can see why he uses them – they work.
