Natalie nods, puts the syringe down somewhere out of sight and walks over to the small sink next to the minibar. She returns with a glass of water with a straw in it. She sits on the bed next to me and moves the straw between my lips. When I'm finished, she places the glass on the bedside dresser and lightly strokes my forehead and cheek.
“I told them it would break your trust if I did this. I told them it wasn’t the right way to go about it. But if you escaped and disappeared, we’d never have these samples. We might never learn anything about you.”
I turn away and look over toward the curtain that's drawn across the balcony doors. “You'd better get on with it then,” I say.
“I can sedate you again, if you like,” Natalie offers.
“No,” I say, turning back to look her in the eye. “I want to watch you.”
Natalie smiles, sheepishly, and kneels down next to the bed to retrieve the syringe. “I need another blood sample,” she says. My curvaceous captor sits down near my legs and runs her fingers along the inside of my right thigh. I assume she’s looking for a vein. Her hands stop not far from my groin, where she swabs with an antiseptic wipe and then pushes the needle in. I watch her face as she concentrates, going about her job with methodical precision. Despite my anger at her betrayal, I find myself even more drawn to her. It’s as if we’re both floating in a dream. I’m irresistibly intrigued by her. I just can't work her out.
Natalie caps the syringe and returns it to an unseen medical kit next to the bed.
“I need to take some tissue samples,” she says. “Which means more needles.”
“Of course it does,” I say.
“I can sedate you, if you like. I promise no harm will come to you.”
“You promised that already. Now I’m chained to a bed.”
Natalie looks away. “I should sedate you.”
“No,” I say, firmly. “I want to be awake.”
Natalie is reluctant, but returns to her kit. I can see her plunge a syringe into a small vile, extracting the light yellow liquid. “I’m going to numb the area before I take the tissue sample,” she says. Once she’s drawn the anesthetic she raises the syringe to the light of the bedside lamp. “I’m going to take the sample from your upper leg, okay? Then it won’t be so obvious.”
Natalie glances at me for a reply, but I don’t. I just look away again. Natalie sits next to me and I feel the needle push into the front of my leg. I try not to grimace from the pain. A minute passes and I keep my eyes on the curtain. My upstretched arms ache and lose feeling as the blood rushes out of them.
“Can you feel this?” Natalie asks. I look down and she’s tapping on an area of skin above my knee.
I can’t feel a thing. “No.”
Natalie leans down and takes a small pen-shaped object. “I’ll try to be quick,” she says. I watch as she lays a white towel under my leg, I assume to protect the mattress. She then places the end of the pen against my skin and uses her thumb to depress a button on the end. I don’t feel anything, but when she pulls away, I can see a small chunk of flesh has been removed. Blood quickly pools in the wound and then trickles down the outside of my leg. Natalie punctures me twice more, creating three tiny holes in a triangle. She then takes a surgical needle and thread and uses a single stitch to seal each wound. She then delicately applies a sticking plaster to cover her handiwork.
“All done,” she smiles.
“You seem to know what you’re doing.”
“I told you I was a doctor,” she replies.
“A doctor of what?”
“I have basic medical training but I’m actually learned in psychology.”
“What kind?”
“Quite a few. Clinical, evolutionary and criminal. I also have a degree in anthropology.”
“You seem very young to have all of those qualifications.”
“I’m dedicated,” she replies.
“Well, it’s nice to finally meet you Dr. Natalie.”
She smiles. “I’m not a persona, Jack. You already know me.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m thirty.”
I strain on the braces on my arms. “I’m starting to get pins and needles. Don’t suppose you could untie me.”
“I will soon, I just need to get… one more sample.”
“Right,” I say. “And what would that be, exactly?”
Natalie pauses before answering. “Seminal fluid.”
“I see,” I reply. “Well… if you use a syringe, I’m going to be very upset.”
“My method of acquiring it depends on whether you're prepared to co-operate.”
Given my circumstance, and despite my feelings of betrayal at being drugged, bound and treated like a pincushion, there’s really only one smart option in this situation. “I suppose I could co-operate.”
“Good answer,” says Natalie. She finds a plastic screw-top jar and undoes the lid, placing the open container on the mattress. She removes the bloodied surgical gloves and puts a fresh glove on her right hand. Natalie then sits on the bed next to me and kisses me on the mouth. Her latex-sheathed hand begins to tease my exposed and vulnerable member. Natalie moves so I can kiss her on the neck. I whisper for her to pull down the front of her dress. Natalie slides the thin strap down over her left shoulder and allows her left breast to emerge from the garment. As I pull against my restraints, Natalie shifts so her nipple can fall into my mouth.
My captor maintains a firm, steady rhythm on my now swollen erection and very soon, as one would expect, she obtains her sample.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I take alleyways and back streets on my way into town, but it becomes more difficult as the density of the populous increases and every lane is a thoroughfare. I’m holding the acoustic guitar in my hand, which I’ve tuned to perfection. I’m wearing a pair of jeans I shoplifted from what appeared to be a factory outlet. A delivery truck was left unattended. I’m wearing a white t-shirt that has the words Juice Bomb on it, which I received from two promotional girls who were walking through the park one day, handing out free items to business people on their lunch breaks. I assume Juice Bomb is a brand of drink or confectionary, rather than an explosive.
As I follow a main road into the city I’m passed by sleek silver buses loaded with smartly dressed commuters. They look like they’re heading to work. The earnest people on the footpaths glance at me briefly and then continue on their way. I keep my chin up, walking with purpose, as if I belong. I’m a man on a mission. The naked acoustic guitar draws some attention.
The shops on either side of the road shift from random small businesses and cleaning services, and what appears to be internet cafés, to high-end retail. The price tags in the shop windows become weighed down with extra digits. The main road I’m on crosses a wide mall, which is buzzing with activity. More retail. Towering statues and massive billboards. Women and men walking by in their business suits, arms loaded with bags of purchased indulgence. The suns sparkle off a fountain and small birds hop around the ankles of shoppers. They’re tiny and brown, like sparrows.
I hear music, but can’t immediately tell from which direction. It seems to echo between the shopping complexes, bouncing between the walls and shopfronts. I walk through the crowd, keeping the guitar close against me. I hear someone singing. A female. As I weave through the strong current of shoppers that shifts back and forth, on the opposite side of the mall I find the source. A young woman. She is accompanied by an equally youthful man, who is picking and strumming at a small guitar-like instrument. It looks like a mandolin. They’re performing ethereal, parochial music. Possibly some of that gypsy-folk genre I was reading about. I stand and watch for a minute. The girl, who’s thin and has long dark hair and a dark blue dress with white trimmings, eventually notices me. She then notices my guitar and smiles. Her voice is crystalline and her diction is rather exceptional.
I marvel at the pair, acknowledging this moment when I first witnessed buskers on a foreign p
lanet. But when I look down to see how much money they’re making, I notice that there is no hat. No open guitar case to catch tossed coins. There is just a small hand-painted sign with four numbers on it. Two three two zero. As I watch, puzzled by their lack of coinage, a man in a long jacket and a business suit stops in front of the performers, punches a number into his mobile phone, nods politely at them and then continues on his way. In the ensuing sixty seconds I notice other people pull out their mobile phones as they approach the duo, nod politely and enter the number on their phone as they proceed up the mall.
Perhaps it is some sort of busking competition and the public is texting votes to that number? Maybe there is a cash prize that negates the need for donations from passers’ pockets? As I ponder this, the duo finishes their song. The woman speaks to me.
“Can you play that?” she smiles, gesturing at my acoustic guitar.
“Yes,” I reply. “In a way.”
“Are you performing somewhere today?”
“Possibly,” I say. “I’ve never performed in public. Do you mind me asking what that number is for?”
The girl looks down at the four digits. “Do you mean our payment code?”
“Yes,” I say.
“That’s how we get paid,” she smiles.
The young man eyes me up and down, warily.
“So you wouldn’t get paid without one?” I query.
“With actual currency?” asks the girl.
“Yes,” I reply. Then I add, “Sorry, I’m not really from around here.”
“You have an odd accent,” she says.
“I travel a lot.”
“Really? Where do you travel?”
“As far and wide as I can,” I smile.
“Obviously nowhere with a blade,” says the young man, wryly, pointing at my thick facial hair.
I don’t reply.
“So you’re going to perform somewhere today, but you don’t have a payment code?” asks the girl.
“Yes,” I say.
“Did you forget it?” asks the young man.
“No, I don’t… think so,” I say. “I’ve never been given one.”
Mild shock crosses the faces of my two new acquaintances.
The girl says, “Do you mean to say that you’re… adrift?”
“Uh, yes, I suppose you could say that.”
The two performers look at each other. The woman is the most sympathetic. Then she turns back to me. “I’ve got four units in my bag,” she says. “I know it’s not much, but if you perform a song with our code, I can give them to you.”
“But,” says the young man, “what if he isn’t any good?”
“Antony!” hisses the girl. “Don’t be so rude. I’m sure he’s excellent.” The girl smiles at me and says, “Please excuse my brother. He’s wary of me talking to strangers.”
“Strange men,” says Antony.
“Well, I am only one strange man,” I smile. “And it would be very generous of you to let me play for your four units.”
“Excellent,” beams the girl. “Then we’ll step aside and you can sing for us.”
I can’t tell if I’m extremely nervous or if my stomach is knotted in hunger, but I do feel giddy when I step to where the duo were performing. The girl notices that I don’t have a guitar strap, so she fetches a small fold-down stool with a round padded seat from their paraphernalia. I sit on the stool, rest the guitar on my lap and gather my thoughts. I have a quick panic attack when I realise that something in the lyrics of the song might give me away. A word might roll off my tongue and cause all of these passers-by, these high-rolling mallrats, to stop and point and scream, “Alien! Imposter!” The risk and the weight of the potential consequence of what I’m about to do are not lost on me. It’s a genuine danger.
I strum my thumb down each string, checking it’s in tune. I tinker the d-string peg. The duo is standing nearby and the young woman smiles encouragingly. I clear my throat and begin.
I try not to think about anything else but the Neil Young song I’m performing. I close my eyes and block everything out. I don’t open them again until the final moments of ‘Old Man’. My parting eyelids reveal a circle of people who have stopped to listen to me. I don’t know how long they’ve been standing there, but they have their mobile phones out. I assume they are making an online payment with the duo’s code, but as they continue to stand there it occurs to me that they are actually filming me. Or recording me. They’re crowded and staring, steadying their phones with outstretched arms.
When I finish the song they clap, smile and continue on their way. The busker duo also claps, the brother pleased for the first time since I approached them.
“That was so good,” smiles the woman.
“Very, very impressive,” says the man.
“Did you write that?” asks the woman.
“Yes,” I smile, a little sheepishly.
“Do you have other songs?” she asks.
“A few,” I reply, standing from the stool. “But they’re not much use without one of these payment codes.”
“You should apply for one,” says the woman. “Just go into your bank.”
“I don’t really have one,” I reply.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” says the woman. “Of course.”
“That’s fine,” I smile.
“I’m sure there’s a way around it,” says the man.
“So nobody would just throw me money?” I ask.
“Not really,” says the woman. “Not many places accept coins now. They’ve been phased out. Everywhere in the city is card only. If it’s a bigger transaction they might take a note. There’s a few exceptions, here and there.”
The young man hands me four coins. Four units. “Some places will accept these, so you can use them to get a meal,” he says.
“Thank you,” I smile.
“We need to go,” says the young man, checking the time on his phone.
“Alright,” says the young woman, nodding. Then to me, she asks, “What’s your name?”
“Jack,” I say.
“Pleasure,” she smiles. “My name’s Evan and this is my brother Adam.”
“Pleasure,” says Adam.
“You’re a very good performer, Jack,” says Evan. “We perform here most days. You should come back some time.”
“I will,” I smile.
“Do you have somewhere to sleep tonight,” she asks.
“Yes, I’m fine,” I say, wary of giving too much away to my new friends.
“You sure?” asks Adam. “You definitely have shelter?”
“Yes, definitely,” I say. “But thank you for your concern.”
Evan smiles. “You do have such an odd accent.”
“Thank you for your generosity,” I smile.
I leave Evan and Adam to pack their belongings and walk up the mall, swept away in the human traffic. I often stop and marvel at the shopfronts, looking at the gadgets and fashion in each window. The technology isn’t unrecognisable and I see a lot that reminds of Earth. But in entertainment technology they seem to be slightly ahead. I see innovations here that are just concepts on my home planet.
I wander past an impressive pharmacy. It’s almost as big as a supermarket and has many displays and flashing adverts for different products. There’s advertising streaming on various flatscreen televisions. Every surface is shiny and white, with long fluorescent tubes glowing in rows that hang from the high ceiling. The shop assistants walk around in white lab coats and are all quite good looking. I’m impressed by it. I imagine that people must look forward to falling ill so that they can come here and stock up on pills and syrups. I walk inside.
All of the aisles have small signs at each end, indicating the stock on the shelves within. One row is labelled Bath Goods, which on closer inspection are toiletries, like shampoo, soap and toothpaste. Another is marked Feminine Hygiene. At the end of each aisle are tall stacks of products. One is a pyramid of small round containers that are full of H
ealth Hits. Careful not to bring down the pyramid, I remove a container and read the label. They appear to be vitamins.
At the end of the next aisle is something called Dreary Cure, which has a picture of a man on the cover. He is sitting on the edge of his bed, head in hands, and appears to have endured an all-night bender. I assume this is some kind of hangover remedy.
My naked acoustic guitar makes me stick out like a sore thumb. I soon hear a woman’s voice behind me.
“How are you today, sir?” asks a fresh-faced young blonde woman, her hair up in a bun. She’s wearing the same pristine, faux lab coat as the other shop assistants. Her nametag says Brie. Like the cheese.
“I’m well,” I smile.
“How can I help you?”
“Oh, um…” I reply, desperately searching for a valid answer. “I’m just looking for the moment.”
“Any moment in particular?” asks Brie. Although she is deftly maintaining her impenetrable shell of hardened customer service, I see her brow furrow, for a very brief second, in confusion and suspicion. She probably thinks I’m some junkie that’s wandered in to pilfer my next fix. I don’t know how to answer.
“Not… really?”
“Do you have an ailment, sir? I can show you to the correct section of our store.”
“No, I’m in good health,” I reply. “But… I currently buy my medicine from a rival store. I’m having a look around your store… with a view to bringing my business here in the future.”
“Oh,” smiles the woman, politely. “Well thank you very much for considering us. Would you like me to show you around?”
“No, I should be fine,” I say. “I have to leave very soon anyway.”
The woman looks at the guitar in my hand. “Are you performing somewhere?”
“Possibly,” I say.
“Where do you perform?”
“Nowhere in particular. I’m not familiar with the city, so I’m having a look around today.”
“Excellent,” she smiles. “Well you should have a look at Cornwell Park. It’s just beyond the next square. It’s not very big, but a lot of people have lunch there. Some of the girls that work here go there on their break.”
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