Skeletal

by Emma Pullar

  Bunce looks down at the crud-encrusted floor.

  ‘Oh gross!’

  ‘Do it!’

  I pull the cupboard door to, leaving a crack to look through. Bunce rolls under the bed as the front door crashes open and two tall figures meander into the room. The woman is muscular; a Runner, I can tell. She wears a navy jumpsuit with splits up each side, and her dreadlocks are piled high on her head. Her eyes glow bright green in the darkness, and her skin is black as flint. Sharp instruments hang from her belt. They gleam, polished, ready to torture a new victim. The man is blotchy, his skin the colour of bile. Dark rings encase his tattooed, green eyes and are mirrored in the matted, greasy ringlets hanging over his shoulders. They’re gang members. Which gang tattoos the whites of their eyes green? I can’t remember.

  ‘Donald, wake up and pay up,’ the man says, with a cruel smile.

  Four of his teeth are filed into sharp points. My eyes widen and I’m tempted to push the door open a little more, so I can get a better look at him. Only the Mutil have filed teeth. Central do it to them before they are slung onto the streets. It helps when hunting – you cannot tear meat from your prey with blunt flat teeth. I’ve never seen a Runner with filed teeth. The shark-toothed man slinks towards the bed. He wears a tight navy t-shirt and black waistcoat. He’s muscular but also thin, like the muscles have been stuck on to his body as an afterthought, and he carries something in his right hand, a cage with a black cloth over it. He places it on the end of the bed.

  ‘Come now, Don,’ he says sweetly. ‘You ain’t high because we ain’t given you ya fix yet. ’Less you using other Runners, but ’choo ain’t doin’ that, are ya?’

  A pathetic whimper comes from the pile of human wreckage slouched on the bed.

  ‘Maybe he can’t ’ear us?’ says the woman. ‘All that rich food and fine clothes ya son gives ya made you deaf as well as dumb? Is that it, Don?’

  Cara’s fear breathes through her skin and into mine. My heart beats fast too and the cramped cupboard starts to feel like an oven. The ex-maid’s breasts are pressed into my back and her curls brush the side of my face as she leans over my shoulder to peer through the crack in the door. I flinch at the unexpected touch of my hand, but I allow Cara to lace her fingers with mine. She relaxes a little. I take my eyes off the intruders for a second and glance down to see one of Bunce’s sneakers peeking out from under the bed. The Morb lies deathly still.

  ‘Please …’ Cara’s uncle croaks. I can’t see him from our hiding place.

  ‘Oh, so you can ’ear us,’ mocks the pointy-toothed man. ‘Well then, maybe he couldn’t see us, huh, Sib? He didn’t know it was us.’

  ‘I think ya right, Dutch, and useless eyeballs have no business being inside a useless head,’ sneers the woman called Sib, and she takes a tin from inside the pocket of her jumpsuit.

  Sobs and creaks come from the bed and Cara’s uncle’s bald head appears at the bottom of it. Is he trying to escape? He can hardly move, let alone run. My instincts tell me to help him. I must have unknowingly shifted forwards because Cara tugs at my hand. This time I stay put. My urge to help that man in Rock Vault only made things worse.

  ‘What’cha doin’, Don? You gonna pay us after all?’ asks Sib in mock sweetness.

  Don collapses on his back and shakes his head. He is shivering and sweating. Glory has chewed it up his life and spat it out. He’s an overdose away from death but today his dealers will finish the job. Glory Runners are not merciful, unless they think you’ll find a way to pay. They may still spare his life, if we can remain undetected. If we are discovered, I don’t know what will happen.

  ‘Hold him,’ says Dutch.

  Sib hands over the tin, and grabs hold of Don by the shoulders, he doesn’t resist. I watch as Dutch carefully opens the tin and pockets the lid, his hand returns from his trouser pocket with a pair of tweezers with which he pulls a wriggling maggot from the small round tin. Don is sobbing again. Sib has propped him up on the hard, wooden end of the bed. She holds his feeble arms down with her elbows and her long spidery fingers clasp either side of his hairless head.

  ‘Oh my glory, Donald, when’s the last time you took a bath?’ she says, wrinkling her nose.

  ‘Hold him still,’ urges Dutch, as he leans over. Don squeezes his eyes shut and Sib slaps him sharply upside the face. He chokes on a sob and opens his bloodshot bug eyes. Sib forces one eye to stay open with her thumb and forefinger. Dutch drops the maggot onto Don’s cornea. Don flinches. I cringe. Sure, a maggot in your eye isn’t pleasant but it’s not like it can burrow into your brain and kill you. What’s the point? Dutch suddenly whips the black cloth from over the cage. I can’t see what’s in it but I hear it.

  ‘CAW!’

  The caged cry is followed by a frustrated flapping. My stomach sinks, rocks at the bottom of it. That’s the point.

  ‘Cara,’ I breathe.

  ‘No,’ she whispers back.

  The bird is out of its cage but still protesting. Dutch holds it tightly.

  ‘No, no, please.’ Don has finally found his voice, and it is that of a frightened child.

  ‘My son, my son will pay you.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t doubt that, but I fink you need a little ’elp in remembering to pay on time,’ says Dutch. ‘Don’t you agree, Sib?’

  ‘I surely do, Dutch,’ she says, her eyes wild with pleasure.

  Don feebly thrashes his stubby legs and squirms as Dutch lowers the bird’s beak in line with the sorry man’s maggot-laced eyeball. I close my eyes. I can’t watch this. How can Cara let this happen? A soul-shattering scream tears its way from the addict’s lungs as the crow stabs its beak into the soft jelly of his eye, in an attempt to retrieve the maggot. Don’s bloodcurdling screams compete with Dutch and Sib’s loud, maniacal laughter. I can’t cope with this. Hiding while someone is tortured to death is not who I am. The Runner’s laughter turns to angry shouts of pain. What? A hand tears back the door and I’m dragged from the cupboard in time to see Dutch snatch Bunce up from under the bed. Blood drips from a kitchen knife in the Morb’s hand. Dutch drops the crow and it flaps up to the ceiling, pushes its feathered body through a hole in the wall and disappears.

  ‘You stupid, fat fuck! Do you know who I am?’ Dutch yells, spit flying at Bunce’s wincing face. ‘You is too light to be this bastard’s son, who are ya?’

  ‘I’m …’

  Bunce splutters and pulls at Dutch’s hand. Dutch drops the Morb and collapses on the bed, holding the back of his ankle. Bunce lies in a heap on the floor.

  ‘Look at these lovelies, Dutch,’ says Sib, as she holds both mine and Cara’s heads back, her fists grasping handfuls of our hair.

  Bunce glances up at me.

  ‘Sorry, Skyla.’

  ‘Fuck! Is there nothing clean in here!?’ Dutch searches around the bed area, I’m guessing for something to stop the flow of blood coming from his slashed ankle. Without looking up he replies to Sib, ‘very nice, we’ll take ‘em to Bullet.’

  ‘Bags of sweet glory, will he be pleased with us,’ Sib grins, she’s missing a couple of teeth. ‘Wanna know why they call him Bullet, girls?’

  ‘Coz he’s a weapons dealer.’ Cara answers, hands on Sib’s, working to release the Runner’s grip on her hair.

  ‘Nuh ah, coz he fires white-tailed bullets into anything that moves.’ Sib makes a violent thrusting gesture with her hips, shouting, ‘BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!’ she laughs, ‘he’ll bang you two raw … till your insides are on the outside. Won’ that be nice?’

  ‘Da fuck he will!’ shouts Don, coagulated blood and jelly spilling from the hollow where his eye once was.

  BANG!

  Dutch’s body goes limp and drops to the floor with a thud. Don points the gun at Sib, then changes his mind.

  BANG!

  Cara’s uncle falls backwards, the blood spray from the side of his head joins Dutch’s splatters across the wall. Screaming erupts. Sib leaps over the bed to cradle her partner in crime. I rush
to help Bunce up. I grab the kitchen knife beside him and once he is on his feet, I step back and scoop the gun from the bed, halfway out the door I turn back.

  ‘Cara!’

  Silent tears run down her face as she stares down at her dead uncle. I wait but I’m conscious of the Glory Runner’s desperate sobs. After sorrow comes rage and Sib doesn’t seem like the type to forgive and forget. Cara touches her uncle on the arm as if in loving thanks, then dashes after us.

  Outside the atmosphere is hushed. The shots must have been heard but no one rushes to the scene. There are only shadows, creeping around without their owners. We hurry across the empty pothole-riddled road. I grip the kitchen knife tightly, galloping sideways, my eyes never leave Don’s cube. Sib doesn’t come out. I bend and slip the knife into my boot; my security comes back. Next, I check the safety on the gun and shove that under my bra strap. It’s a small handgun, a pistol that senior guards sometimes carry. Where did Don get it?

  Confident the Glory Runner isn’t coming after us, we head north-west and a familiar feeling comes over me. I know where I am. I can see The Spiral, the central point of the city. I signal to Cara and Bunce to keep following me. I wonder what possessed Bunce to cut open that Runner’s heels? What made him pick up the knife in the first place? He’s either found some courage, or he’s gone crazy.

  Behind me, Cara wears a calm determination, but Bunce’s eyes are empty, blank, not twisted in distress from the shooting as I was expecting. He’s had a baptism of fire into my world and I wouldn’t have been surprised if he lost his mind but that doesn’t seem to be the case. He seems stronger, mentally and physically, when only moments before he was whining like a baby. I know why though, don’t I? To inflict harm on another, let their blood spill for the purpose of saving yourself or to save others, creates a shift in consciousness. Slicing Dutch’s ankle open is a big deal. Morbs don’t use violence to solve their problems, because they would never be in a position where they would have to. Bunce is something else, he’s even managing to keep up with us.

  ‘Why were the whites of their eyes fluorescent green?’ he asks.

  ‘They’re Runners. Gang members,’ I explain.

  ‘I don’t know what that means,’ he says.

  ‘They tattoo colours on their eyes to signal which clique they belong to,’ I explain. The leader of the green gang pops into my mind, ‘I think green Runners belong to Dra’cave.’

  ‘Dra’cave?’ Bunce says, confused.

  ‘Named after their leader, Marcus Dra’cave,’ Cara interrupts. ‘Evil bastard.’

  ‘They’re all evil, aren’t they?’ asks Bunce, his question aimed at anyone with the answer.

  ‘Not like him,’ Cara shudders. ‘He likes to skin people after he kills ‘em. Makes clothes out of ‘em.’

  ‘You’re not serious?’ Bunce frowns at Cara.

  ‘After all you’ve seen, you still don’t understand how this city works?’ I say, exasperated. ‘Do they teach ignorance at those Morb schools or are you naturally that clueless?’ I can’t stop myself. ‘Sitting in your safe classrooms, learning useless junk, lies Central tell you and you swallow them all, don’t you? Mummy and Daddy tucking you in at night … there, there baby, monsters aren’t real. Who are the real monsters huh, Bunce? The Mutils? The gangs? The addicts? Or the monsters who created them?’

  ‘Skyla, it’s not his fault.’

  Cara pulls at my arm. Dragging me into the shadows. I bat her hand away and take a step closer to Bunce.

  ‘Skels – are – treated – like – dirt. Experimented on and chopped up into food for your gluttonous race: Have you seen Frank? Yeah, I ate him yesterday.’ Bunce winces, I keep talking at him. ‘Most people are high on glory because they can’t deal with their horrible lives. What are your lot high on, cakes?’ I turn on a mock Morb accent. ‘Oh, Bunce, I’m so upset, the maid forgot to order zesty cakes at the Hyper Market today, it’s tragic, I know. Imagine a world without cakes, I’d kill myself!’

  Cara gives me a dirty look, as if I’ve gone too far.

  ‘I’m still here, aren’t I?’ Bunce says, wearily. ‘I haven’t gone running back to Mummy and Daddy, even though I’m scared out of my wits! And yes, all I really want to do is drop you and go home but like an idiot I don’t. Like an idiot I would follow you to the end of the desert …’

  He trails off. I purse my lips, slightly ashamed of my outburst. He hasn’t quit and I should give him credit for that. I don’t give him enough credit. Cara speaks to Bunce, her tone softer than usual.

  ‘You don’t wanna run into any more gangs, trust me. Especially not Dra’cave. He’d love a Bunce skin suit. Skin as light as yours he would wear like a badge of honour.’

  ‘Cara, you’re not helping,’ Bunce says, dragging his feet.

  ‘I’m tellin’ ya,’ Cara says, dark curls bouncing as she strides through the streets talking to Bunce in a casual manner, like they’re discussing the weather. ‘He wouldn’t think twice about wearin’ ya cock and balls on his face like he was goin’ to some freakish masquerade ball!’

  ‘Cara!’ I smirk, pretending to be annoyed with her like she’s a naughty child who said a swear word. Bunce’s face is red. He chuckles.

  ‘Not just that,’ Cara grins, revelling in making the Morb laugh. ‘I ‘eard he used to go around wearing a boob hat!’

  Bunce allows himself to let out a guffaw. I smile and shake my head. Cara clamps her hands over her mouth, she cannot believe she’s said such things to a Morb. When the giggles subside, a weight is lifted between us. Cara seems to have let go of her resentment in losing her job with the Vables. I guess a family member giving his life to save yours can dramatically change your perspective. Our lives are now too interconnected to hold grudges. There’s enough to fight against without fighting with each other.

  19

  Glory Den

  We stick to dirty walls like flies to the dead heads above the trenches, weaving along the rows of crumbling cubes in silence. The last thing we need is to attract a hungry Mutil, or more gang members. My body aches, the kind of tired that goes deep into the bone, my legs feel like they’re made of lead and my boots clomp heavily into the dark streets as if a giant owns them. Gunshots are rarely heard around the city. When a gun is fired, people scatter like birds. Tonight is no different, except unlike people, the crows perch undeterred on their favourite staring spots. Always watching, lined up on cube ledges and tree branches. The sinful secret keepers. They see Gale City as it really is and only they know everything. I wish they could tell me if Clover is still alive. I could do with some of his advice right about now.

  ‘Skyla!’

  ‘Tess?’

  I turn around and Tess launches herself at me. I lift her up and her thin legs wrap tight around my waist, like a baby bear would around its mother. She places her head on my shoulder, and I stoke her brittle hair.

  ‘What are you doing out here?’

  ‘I’ve been looking for you.’ She nuzzles into my neck.

  ‘You shouldn’t be out here alone, it’s not safe.’

  I pinch the flesh on her shoulder and then feel her bony arm.

  ‘Stop that,’ she says with a giggle.

  ‘What?’ I ask smiling.

  ‘I’m fine. I’m not starving!’ She holds my face in her tiny hands and looks straight into my eyes. ‘I can look after myself.’

  ‘I can see that.’ I lower her down gently and start re-plaiting her unravelled braid. ‘Why is it always the right one?’

  Tess laughs. I reach into the pocket of her tattered dress and pull out the elastic band she should have around her hair.

  ‘We better keep moving, that Runner could still catch up to us,’ Cara says, eyes darting around the streets. I nod, and Tess weaves her tiny fingers between mine.

  ‘How’s your mum?’ I ask.

  ‘Worse. She’s really sick. That’s why I came to find you. You’re all I’ve got,’ she says, hugging me around the waist.

  ‘Whe
re’s Clover?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him since our card game.’ She chews the corner of her bottom lip. ‘People say he’s dead, taken by the guards.’

  ‘Don’t be silly …’ I say, squeezing her hand. ‘Clover is lucky. I’m sure he’s fine.’

  My words are different to my thoughts. I know what Tess says could be true. Maybe Clover’s luck did run out. I can’t tell Tess that. I can’t upset her further. Sometimes too much truth can poison a person, and children should never overdose on harsh truths.

  ‘Who’s Clover, friend of yours?’ Cara asks.

  I shake my head.

  ‘Slum Lord.’

  ‘This little girl is an Eremite?’

  I nod and Tess grins at Cara.

  ‘Accepted by Eremites,’ Cara says, eyes burning through me, impressed, ‘Interesting.’

  Cara starts questioning Tess about the slums. I guess she is thinking of where she’ll go. Lost her job, uncle dead, the slums might be her only choice, if they agree to take her. I can’t think what to do right now. I can’t take Tess into The Spiral with me. I’ll have to take her home. I stop and pull the group into the shadow of a Sky-Train support.

  ‘Cara, are there any glory dens around here?’

  ‘Why you wanna know that?’

  ‘Clean ones, that High-Hosts visit.’

  ‘There’s one by the orchard.’ She points in the direction we were heading. ‘But I don’t think …’

  ‘Don’t think,’ I say, ‘I’ll do the thinking. I got us all into this mess, I’ll get us out.’

  I stride away, pulling Tess along by the hand. Bunce quietly follows. Cara doesn’t, she stands with her arms folded, only for a moment, then gives up being stubborn and strolls up beside me. We turn down the last alley on the block, and out of the darkness a wall of heavy, dirty, emerald material hangs down, blocking our path.

  ‘This it?’ I ask Cara. She nods. I push the curtain aside.

  ‘I hope you know what you’re doin’, Sky,’ Cara whispers.

  On the other side of the filthy, emerald curtain is a makeshift tent. Tables, butted hard up against the alley walls, are lit with fireflies in glass jars. Glory doesn’t usually have a smell, but inside the den the haze is thick and smells of burnt leaves. I lead the others towards the back. Tess holds on to my arm with both hands, her body tight up against my leg. She has good reason to feel threatened. To either side of us are High-Hosts and Eremites, some talk in low voices and puff on sticks, some are slumped over tables, gloried off their face, and some follow us with their eyes.