Homebound

by Lydia Hope

  “It’s Cricket.”

  “Cricket?”

  “My daughter, Emmaline. Everyone calls her Cricket.”

  “What’s wrong with Cricket?”

  “She’s been sick. One of her attacks again, and a bad one. They always get worse in winter. I was so scared, like, she couldn't breathe!”

  Gemma held her close, feeling the sobs that Ruby tried hard to suppress.

  “Is that why you missed work yesterday?”

  Ruby nodded. “There’s no one else, only she and I. I took care of her yesterday. She is still recovering at home, but I have to be here. We depend on this job. See, the docks fired Cricket. She couldn't work for three days, and they said no.”

  “I’m so sorry, Ruby.”

  But Ruby was already letting go of her and trying to pull herself together. “Look at me, silly old biddy, trying to give you advice.” She was wiping her tears off with the sleeve of her overcoat, but they kept coming. “I need a moment.”

  “Yes, take all the time you need.”

  “No, you need to take your alien pet outside. There isn’t gonna be much time left after they fit a tracker on him.”

  Gemma was torn. Here was Ruby who had reached the end of her rope with no one to care. On the other hand, Simon desperately needed to be fed.

  In the end, they hoisted Simon’s pliable body into the chair, and Gemma took him downstairs where a crafty guard affixed a flexible rubber band around his left bicep. Or bone, as it were, over which a bicep should have been overlaid.

  “This is tethered to a homing device within the building. He can move around within a mile radius,” the guard explained in a monotone, then stopped and looked at Simon. “I don’t think you’ll need all that distance, but anyhow. If he crosses the line, he’ll receive a real strong zap - which, by the way, will hurt like a motherfucker - and this here alarm will go off. If he tries to take it off, it’ll shock hard enough to stop his heart.” He sniffed the snot back into his nose. “Make sure he doesn't dick around.”

  Gemma peered at Simon sitting lax in the chair. “No dicking around. We’ll just be outside.”

  The guard nodded, supremely uninterested in some alien bag of bones in a wheelchair.

  Gemma pushed the heavy door open and they went outside. The street near the back of the prison was deserted. Gemma’s heart was beating out a steady tempo as she strolled down the sidewalk. She and Simon, outside. Her plan worked.

  The experience was surreal.

  On her way to work, she’d hidden a jar of yogurt in one of the crumbling brick walls of an old church that sat at the corner of two streets. One street led back to the City and Gemma took it home every day. The other dead-ended at the junkyard.

  She parked Simon by the wall and engaged the breaks. It was warmer there where the church’s remains protected them from the wind. It also allowed a modicum of privacy should anyone happen to walk in on them. She didn’t worry about being observed from the prison - its lack of outside windows ensured that - but a fellow prison worker going in or out at an odd time might question the spoon-feeding procedure.

  “Okay, Simon. Work with me.”

  She retrieved the jar and the small spoon she’d taken from the house. Her stomach growled at the sight of the yogurt, reminding Gemma that her last meal was now good twelve hours ago.

  She started with her finger, dipping it in the yogurt and sticking it between Simon’s dry lips. The act was so personal that she shivered. Was she playing dolls with him, as Ruby had said? He didn’t feel like a doll. He felt strange to her. All of it was so strange, and weird, and soothing. It felt right.

  Simon gave no feedback on the yogurt, but neither did he resort to one of his subtle passive-aggressive ways where the food would pass no farther than his lips and dribble down his chin. Gemma took it as an encouragement. More confident, she pushed the next helping of yogurt deeper into his mouth, past his soft gums.

  He made no protest.

  “That’s right, bud. A little more, and we’ll work on swallowing.”

  After she was satisfied with the amount of food in his mouth, she wiped her finger and grasped his chin tilting it up, feeling the solid heavy bone of his jaw in the palm of her hand. The yogurt slid down and he was forced to swallow. She saw his throat contract.

  “Good. I wish you could tell me how you like it. Two thumbs up? Yes.” She went to do her finger-food stuff again, talking to him all the while. “You know, I used to hate goat milk. I haven’t even tried it before I came to the City. And afterward, it didn’t matter much what I ate as long as I ate something. Zeke… “ She had to stop and swallow at mentioning his name, the pain of his deflection still too sharp. “My former fiancé, he stood firm. He is a staunch vegetarian. At least this is how I remember him. Guess some people have strong convictions, don’t they? Or maybe he’d never been hungry enough. Now, swallow for me.”

  He did. She ruffled his hair in approval.

  Suddenly, he tilted his head, cracking his neck, and coughed once. Gemma stilled.

  “Are you okay?” She didn’t know why she asked, knowing he wouldn't reply, but treating him like an inanimate object felt wrong.

  A feeble sizzle of energy fluttered out and was quickly extinguished. Gemma gave him a minute to settle.

  His thin wrinkled lips parted and the tip of his tongue - blue? - made a quick sweeping motion along his upper lip startling Gemma.

  “That good, huh?”

  She picked up more yogurt, this time with a spoon, and tentatively brought it to his lips.

  “Come on, Simon. You can do it. I know you want to,” she murmured.

  And he cooperated. Sort of. When she placed the spoon between his lips, she found them relaxed, and the yogurt went easily inside his mouth. And when he swallowed it on his own, she wanted to cry. No, scratch that, she did. Her eyes went all blurry, and his pale face wavered mere inches from hers.

  With deliberate slowness, she spoon-fed him little by little so as not to overload him, letting him swallow at his own pace. She stopped twice to wipe her suddenly runny nose and laughed quietly from profound joy.

  “You’ve done it, Simon. You ate it all up. You’ll be alright now. I know it.”

  She had no idea if he would be. He might yet barf, and all her efforts would be for nothing.

  They waited, but his condition didn’t change. He breathed evenly in and out and stared blankly at the docks across the vast clutter of the junkyard.

  Happy and satiated as if it was she who ate the yogurt, Gemma returned Simon to his cell by the appointed time and went back to work.

  She felt like she’d opened a new page of her life.

  Chapter 9

  They slipped into a routine. Gemma would stash the yogurt in the bricks on her way to work, and during the courtyard outings when the third floor emptied save for the green crazy man, she’d take Simon outside and feed him, always careful to return him to his cell on time.

  Weeks went by, but so far the boost in his nutrition brought no noticeable changes in his appearance or his attitude. He continued to look pale and malnourished and stared fixedly in front of him.

  But there were signs, subtle vibrations around him that Gemma picked up on every time she came to take him to their walks. Like he knew. She fancied he liked his outings and his yogurt.

  Caring for Simon filled Gemma’s life with purpose. The two of them had formed a bond, and if it might be a tad one-sided, she wouldn’t think too much of it. She needed a conviction that she wasn’t alone in the world.

  Suddenly, the prison no longer seemed a terrible place to work. The miserly pay lost its power to depress her. Every morning now Gemma’s feet felt light when she walked through the heavy rusty door into the cold lobby with its unpleasant musty smell and empty echoing walls.

  Every morning at roll call, she stopped by Simon’s cell to check and make sure he was okay and let him know she was here, even though he wouldn’t know the difference.

  She smiled of
ten.

  She even extended a tentative olive branch to the Obu who had gone into deep melancholia because Gemma refused to pet him ever since that frightening courtyard incident. Reasoning that the beast was innocent on the account of being dumb, it didn’t take her long to mellow down. She gave him his morning pats at the roll call where he was always waiting for her, body pressed flush with the bars on his door, eager for her attention.

  But in other ways, nothing had changed. The work was hard and often disgusting, with no potential for improvement.

  Gemma was mopping the floor in the corridor - would it ever stay clean for at least a day? - humming a happy melody. Ruby had gone down to check on the bedding for a new inmate who was coming in, and Arlo took a Tana-Tana down to complete his checkout process - the alien was being released today.

  The cells stayed pretty quiet today, with the inhabitants holed up in their close quarters. Gemma had learned that the afternoons were the worst for the third-floor inmates. With the yard outing complete and lunch over with, there were no stimuli to arouse their interest, nothing to look forward to except a brief animation of a meager dinner.

  She started to sing in a low voice, swishing her mop in an organized pattern.

  “Mistress! Hey, mistress cleaner! Gemma!” a childish voice called.

  Without breaking her song, Gemma waltzed over to cell number 28, doing proper box steps and feeling her body making that smooth rise-and-fall action. Waltz was forgiving to her lame foot, concealing the limp when she lowered her weight on the heel of her boot at the end of the third beat.

  “Yes, 28?”

  The Sakka housed in cell 28 was fretful. Most Sakka were, their gentler nature predisposed to order and cleanliness. Dirt and clutter stressed them. That, combined with their non-confrontational character, made Sakka great domestic servants, and they were one of the very few aliens actively imported to Meeus to work for its wealthier citizens.

  Number 28 was waiting for Gemma near his barred door delicately kneading something in his hands.

  “I was wondering if it would be possible to replace my cleaning rag,” Sakka was throwing small glances at Gemma’s face without making full eye contact. “I’m afraid this one is getting worn out.” He stopped kneading the cloth and unfolded it, demonstrating several large holes.

  Gemma stopped humming and peered inside his cell. The walls were buffed. The toilet sparkled. The metal bars gleamed with a mirror-like sheen.

  “Where did you get this in the first place?” she asked the Sakka.

  He snatched his rag away and held it behind his back as if Gemma was going to wrestle it away from him. The guy seriously needed to be able to keep cleaning for his mental health.

  “The helper who worked here before you gave it to me. I would appreciate a new one. This one smells,” he added shyly.

  Gemma had no idea if simply asking Marigold the Supply Closet Dragon would solve the problem. An inmate was allowed a rag if he wanted one, no?

  “How about you hold on to this one for a while longer, and I find out for you?” She’d start by asking Ruby.

  The Sakka nodded and moved away looking disappointed.

  Gemma resumed her humming and began to waltz back to her bucket when an unmistakable smell of fresh smoke caught her attention. She stopped, sniffing the air. Her gaze sharpened.

  Sure enough, a butt of a rolled-up cigarette was wafting a thin stream of smoke from the corridor floor. It hadn’t been there when Gemma mopped it mere minutes ago.

  She surveyed the crime scene. Judging from the butt’s location, it had been flicked from one of the cells after the perpetrator had had his fill. That meant five, maybe six cells nearby.

  “I am going to find out who smoked and I am going to report him.”

  Her announcement was summarily ignored.

  Slowly, Gemma walked by the cells in question squinting at every suspect in turn: Xosa, Tana-Tana, Tarai, Birdie 1, Birdie 2, Arc the Perali, and Simon.

  The last one couldn’t have done it, she knew that.

  Birdies could also be scratched off her list - a conjecture, of course, but the two didn’t strike her as avid users of weed.

  The Xosa was sleeping. Taking naps during the day went against the rules, but she refused to harass inmates for transgressions that meaningless. So not him, either.

  Tana-Tana, old and tired-looking, sat cross-legged in the middle of his cell, presumably in deep meditation. It could’ve been him, sure, but for the moment she dismissed him as an unlikely maybe.

  She planted her feet firmly in front of the Tarai, gearing up for a confrontation. Heavy bars separated them, but she could vividly recall his meaty fingers circling Simon’s throat, his small moss-green pupil-less eyes cold and unfeeling. If not for her, he would’ve killed Simon and given it no more thought than squishing a cockroach. She resented this alien.

  “You.”

  He looked up and saw her standing there. His ridiculous and repulsive ears flickered, fluffing the tufted fringe decorating the inner rims of the shells.

  “Come up to the bars and exhale. I want to smell your breath.”

  In no hurry, he approached the door but did nothing more than stand there, looking at her with impersonal hostility she remembered from the courtyard.

  “Blow out,” she ordered sternly.

  His eyes never blinked. “You can’t make me,” he said in an accent so thick she barely understood.

  She took a small step forward. “Fine. Then I’ll say I saw you smoke it.”

  He sneered. “Your threats are empty. Stupid human whore.” He spat at her feet and moved deeper into his cell, turning his back on her.

  Gemma narrowed her eyes at him. He hadn’t fallen for her bluff. Yet his reluctance to engage with her told her he was the likely offender. Either him or Number 34.

  She left the Tarai and moved to take a look at the Perali.

  “What? I didn’t do it.” He was standing by the bars, waiting for her. “Why risk it? Besides, I don’t like weed.”

  “Did you see who smoked it?”

  “Ah, no. I didn’t.”

  “I will find out,” she promised ominously. “Eventually.”

  “Beautiful Gemma, this blunt is a small business, not worth worrying your head about. Pretend you never noticed.”

  “It’s contraband,” she countered.

  He didn’t deny it. “It’s part of prison life.”

  She was tempted to point out that it didn’t make it right but refrained from wasting her breath. They all knew the rules and didn’t give two figs about them. Prison life, indeed.

  “I have to tell you,” he declared with some intensity, “I will think of you when I’m out. Two more weeks.”

  “Leaving soon. Good for you.”

  He laughed quietly. “Not soon enough. But if you want to tell me how madly you’ve fallen in love with me, better hurry. Not much time left.”

  Gemma gave him a withering look. “I don’t know what gave you this idea.”

  He cocked his wolfish head. Perali weren’t handsome by human standards, with heavy brows, small, close-set eyes, and a trademark receding chin. This one was on the prettier side but still faintly feral. He linked his heavy, hairy and tattooed arms together around the bars.

  “A guy can hope. I’ve never dated a human girl. You think it would be fun to try?”

  “Not this girl, but I wish you luck.”

  “You’re cold, Gemma,” he complained. “Or am I not special to you?”

  “Everyone is special, but you don’t expect me to fall in love with every one of you, do you?” She raised an eyebrow at him.

  His gaze became skeptical. “Ah, but if only you had time to notice me. Your pet project gets all your attention.” He indicated Simon’s cell with a sideways nod.

  “Someone has to care for the disabled.”

  “Your pity will get you in trouble.”

  “I think I’ll be fine.”

  Number 34 pressed his face close to th
e bars, and all amusement fled him. “And maybe you will be, Gemma. You already have a Rix defender in your debt. You keep stroking him in all the right places, and he might pay you back in a big way. Not bad, Gemma, not bad. Now, I’d much rather you picked me but it’s okay. I understand.” He winked at her.

  Gemma frowned, confused. “You lost me. Poor Simon can’t even protect himself. Why do you call him a defender?”

  Number 34 scratched his flank. “You don’t know much about Rix, do you?”

  Denying the obvious would be futile. “I didn’t know they existed until I came here and saw Simon.”

  He rolled up his small but heavily lashed eyes. “That explains why you’re inclined to be charitable. Rix call their space force Defenders. Your poor Simon is one. Probably of some distinction.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Number 34 waved his clawed hand in front of his neck. “The signs on his throat. He’s got too many for a simple soldier.”

  “Are you saying he’s here because of some military action?”

  “That’s the funny thing. Rix don’t participate in military conflicts. Ever since they left behind their violent past, they’ve adopted a strict non-interference policy. They only engage when threatened. Which, I’ve got to tell you, is rare.”

  “How did he end up on Earth, of all places?” Gemma mused out loud.

  “A strange situation,” Number 34 agreed. “And Rix aren’t known to leave one of theirs behind. Someone should’ve come for him a long time ago. But hey, who knows what Rix think? Intolerant jerks. And dangerous.”

  He annoyed Gemma. “Surely not Simon. He isn’t well enough to be dangerous.”

  Number 34 chuckled. “Especially if he isn’t well, beautiful Gemma. He may feel threatened, and killing is in his blood. If I were you, I wouldn't be as blasé getting in and out of his cell all day long.” His smile grew. “Tell you what, I’m a much safer bet. You can put your hands on me any time you want, and I absolutely won’t harm you.”

  “You’re such a hoot,” Gemma said sourly. If anyone here had an urge to kill, it was Number 34 and his pal the Tarai. And all the other violent jackasses who had nearly ended Simon’s life under the pretext that he could be dangerous. “Simon won’t harm me. He can’t even feed himself.”