The Mall

by S. L. Grey

  My exhausted brain refuses to react to their outlandish appearance. It’s as if my consciousness has decided, ‘Fuck, it, Rhoda, let’s just go with the flow’. I actually don’t care any more. I really don’t. I’m becoming detached from all this bullshit; as if I’m just waiting for my mind to snap once and for all. And anyway, let’s face it, I’ve seen a lot worse than this display of outrageous bad taste. In fact, compared to Horrible Rat Woman and the other freaks around here, they’re pretty tame.

  ‘Howzit!’ The woman smiles at me as they pass, batting her eyelashes. Close up it’s obvious that her cheekbones aren’t the ones she was born with. Plastic surgery overload. And I can tell by the taut shiny skin in between her cleavage that her giant tits are as fake as her skin colour.

  ‘Hi,’ I say.

  She pauses. ‘You know, you should really check out the lounge furniture in Flammable City. It’s simply to die for!’

  The guy grunts in agreement. He’s also wearing make-up. His pores are clogged with foundation, and the thick black kohl smeared around his eyes gives him the look of Uncle Fester from the Addams Family. He grins at me, showing off toothless black gums.

  ‘Right,’ I say. ‘Cheers.’ My instinct is to step back a couple of paces, but they seem friendly enough, which is a major improvement on everyone else I’ve encountered.

  ‘Oh,’ the woman says, using the neon pink talons on her remaining hand to dig under the dry blonde tresses of her hair. ‘And I heard a rumour that Scrape has new stock. We’re on our way there now. Would you like to join us?’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, trying not to think about what the fuck a shop called Scrape could possibly sell. ‘That’s nice of you, but I –’ have to get the fuck out of this madhouse ‘– have to meet a friend.’

  ‘Another time, then. Have a primo shopping day!’ the woman says, and they both head off.

  What the hell was that all about?

  Do I really care?

  Just more crazy shit.

  Okay. Back to the plan. First warn Dan that we’re no longer in Kansas (although he must have figured this out himself by now), somehow track down the woman who managed to get out of this hellhole and pump her for information, then leave.

  Like it’s going to be that simple.

  Buy cigarettes, tell the cops about the missing kid, beg or borrow enough cash to buy a plane ticket home, and then get on with my life.

  What life?

  ‘Shut up!’

  I’m not sure how I feel about schizo voice’s re-emergence. Isn’t talking to yourself the first sign of madness? And if so, what’s the second sign?

  Arguing with yourself, of course!

  ‘Oh, ha ha. Fucking hysterical.’

  I start heading in the direction of the escalators. I pass an enormous high-end clothes shop, the mannequins in the window a mix of the surreal and the sickening.

  ‘Greetings, ma’am!’ I jump as a salesman pokes his head out of the shop’s door. ‘I see you’re admiring our display,’ he says in an over-the-top camp voice. His hair is gelled into a ridiculous spike on the top of his head, his eyebrows are shaven and drawn back on with what looks like thick felt-tip, and there’s a fuchsia silk scarf draped around his neck, but otherwise he looks almost normal.

  ‘Hi,’ I say warily. Why’s everyone suddenly being over-friendly?

  ‘Please,’ he says, grinning at me and stepping backwards as if to usher me into the store.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Now, I hope you don’t mind me being forward, but I took one look at you and I just knew you were the perfect size starvation. Am I right?’

  ‘You taking the piss?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ he says looking genuinely confused. ‘Have I offended you, ma’am?’

  ‘Fuck you,’ I say.

  The guy throws back his head and laughs. ‘Ma’am! A figure to die for and a sense of humour!’

  He pauses as a skinny woman dressed in tiny cycling shorts approaches. Christ. Her obviously fake breasts are way too large for her tiny frame and under her strapless Lycra top it’s clear that they’re misshapen and lumpy, the skin around them stretched almost to splitting point. There’s a stained bandage covering one of her ears, and giant-sized false eyelashes are glued to her lids, one of which is peeling off. She smiles nervously at the shop assistant and hesitates as if she’s about to enter the store, but he glares at her and curls his lip. She drops her head and scuttles past. What the hell was that all about?

  ‘Don’t you just hate them?’ he says to me in a conspiratorial whisper.

  ‘Hate who?’

  He gestures towards the woman. ‘Wannabes. As if I would be fooled. I mean, did you see the work? Substandard beyond belief.’

  He smiles again and gestures towards the open door.

  I hesitate. Maybe I can get some information out of him. It’s worth a shot.

  ‘Please,’ he says, this time sounding almost desperate. ‘Please come in, ma’am.’

  Don’t do it, Rhoda. Remember the plan.

  I suppose the schizo voice does have a point, but I have to start somewhere.

  Fuck it.

  I follow him into the boutique. A fine golden chain is attached to his ankle, snaking its way out from behind the polished wooden counter at the far end of the room, and he gathers it up discreetly as he ushers me forward.

  Uh-oh. Not good.

  I tune out the voice and check out my surroundings. The shop is clearly one of those exclusive stores that only sells designer goods. It looks like the lounge of a country house. Beige leather couches are dotted around the vast space, and silk dresses, tailored suits and the kind of clothes you only see on celebrities are sparsely displayed on the headless torsos that line the room. It’s the kind of sneering exclusive store that under normal circumstances I wouldn’t even dream of entering.

  But what’s normal about these circumstances, eh, Rhoda?

  Camp Assistant claps his hands. ‘Patrice! Quickly! We have a fresh Shopper!’

  A guy pops up from behind the counter with the speed of a jack-in-the-box. ‘Oh!’ he says. ‘How absolutely marvellous! Welcome, ma’am. And congratulations.’ One of the arms of his suit jacket ends in a jagged tear just above the elbow, and a seeping, bandaged stump peeks out of the bottom of it. I realise that I don’t actually feel any surprise or disgust at the sight of this. It’s like I’m watching all of this from the ceiling, or on a monitor somewhere.

  ‘Thank you so much for shopping with us today,’ Camp Assist ant says. ‘May I offer you some refreshments? Champagne? Maybe an espresso?’

  ‘Huh?’

  He waves me towards one of the leather couches. ‘Please, have a seat!’

  He nods at his companion and the one-armed assistant scurries out from behind the counter and sprints across the shop floor to a curtained-off area at the back of the room. His ankle is also shackled to the desk, but again, my detached brain refuses to give a shit about this. It’s just much more comfortable not to worry.

  I sink into the couch, and my leg muscles sigh with relief.

  Camp Assistant smiles at me ingratiatingly. ‘May I just thank you again for shopping with us, ma’am?’

  Would he know the woman – (what was her name? Nthombi? Nyameka? Napumla – that’s it) – who’d managed to escape this place? Only one way to find out. ‘Look,’ I say, ‘I wonder if you can help me?’

  ‘Help you? But of course I can help you! Just wait here.’

  He minces off and disappears towards the rear of the shop.

  What now?

  What now? WHAT NOW? Get out of here and find Dan!

  Ignoring the voice, I lean back in the couch, letting myself relax fully. Every inch of me aches, and it’s utterly delicious to be sitting somewhere comfortable for once. I put my filthy sneakers up on the coffee table in front of me. It’s strewn with fashion magazines, but the models on the front covers all look like they’ve literally been starving themselves; most have the sickly pallor and over-accentu
ated cheekbones of hunger-strikers. I can feel my eyelids getting heavy – it would be so easy to close my eyes and drift away.

  Don’t you fucking dare!

  The voice is right. I sit up and stretch my arms above my head, gazing around at the rest of the store. There are several black-and-white framed photographs behind the counter that I haven’t noticed before. They’re the kind of posed headshots of celebrities you see in restaurants, and several have thick black crosses scored across their faces.

  One-Arm returns balancing a tray loaded with a cafetière and, oh God, a plate of what looks to be smoked salmon sandwiches, with the crusts cut off.

  ‘I see you’re admiring our gallery,’ he says. I can’t take my eyes off the food on the tray. My stomach growls.

  ‘Gallery?’ I say.

  He nods towards the photos. ‘Our beautiful gallery of Shoppers past.’

  Now what the hell did he mean by that?

  Duh. Shop till you drop, Rhoda, literally.

  ‘Now, you make yourself comfortable,’ he says. ‘I’m going to help Clive find the perfect outfit for you!’

  ‘Wait! I have to—’

  ‘Relax!’ he says, and there’s something desperate about the way he says this. ‘Please!’ He stares at me anxiously, but he needn’t worry. I’m already salivating.

  He scuttles off as I fall on the sandwiches, stuffing them into my mouth. I pour out a cup of coffee, and glug back a mouthful, scalding my tongue. I have never tasted anything so delicious. I can’t cram the sandwiches in quickly enough, and almost choke trying to swallow.

  ‘Here we are!’

  Both assistants are standing in front of me, clothes draped over their arms. ‘Now, I hope you don’t think I’m too forward,’ Camp Assistant says, ‘but with your colouring, I was thinking olive green. What do you think?’

  He holds up a silk dress that even I have to admit is beautiful.

  ‘Would you like to try it on?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say with a shrug.

  No. No you don’t. It’s not even your colour!

  One-Arm ushers me towards a changing booth, and Camp Assistant hurries over and hands me a leather jacket and a pair of silk stockings. Both of them are acting as if they’re assisting the Queen of England and not some down-and-out ex-druggie who smells like death on toast. But who am I to fucking well argue? Worst-case scenario, I can always grab the clothes and do a runner.

  It wouldn’t be the first time.

  The booth is surrounded by mirrors, but for some reason they make me look taller, less skinny and shapeless, and for once I don’t actually mind looking at my reflection. Even the scar looks less disfiguring. A trick?

  Of course! It’s all bullshit. The shop assistants are fucking chained up! How can this be a good thing?

  I’m suddenly aware of how much I loathe the clothes I’m wearing and I pull them off as fast as I can. I hold the olive green dress up to my naked body. I haven’t worn a dress since I was seven or so, but it’s got to be better than the damp T-shirt and the combats that still hold the stink of Horrible Rat Woman’s shitinfested lair. I slide the dress over my head. It fits perfectly, skimming over my non-existent hips, the hem finishing a good twelve centimetres above my knees. I pull on the tights, snagging them on my toes, and pick up the leather jacket. It feels impossibly soft and buttery, and not like any leather I’ve ever felt before.

  I check out my reflection. Fuck me. A stranger stares back. I really don’t look like me at all. I look…

  Elegant? Yeah right. Come on, you’re not that deluded.

  ‘Yoo-hoo!’ Camp Assistant calls. ‘Don’t leave us in suspense!’

  I open the changing-room curtain and step out.

  ‘Oh my! You look beautiful! Simply stunning!’ Camp Assistant claps his hands. ‘Patrice! Come and see!’

  One-Arm pops up from his perch behind the counter and checks me out, looking as if he’s about to burst into tears of rapture. ‘Oh! How divine!’ he says. ‘You must have the lot!’

  ‘Oh, you must!’ Camp Assistant says. ‘Really!’

  ‘Yeah right,’ I say. ‘Like I can afford to pay for them.’

  ‘Pay?’ They both look at each other as if I’ve said something totally outlandish. ‘But you’re a Shopper!’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re a Shopper,’ Camp Assistant repeats as if saying it twice will make it clearer.

  ‘You just said that…’ Both of them are looking at me with that concerned expression people use when patronising the temporarily deranged.

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘What the hell. I’ll take the lot.’

  ‘Wonderful!’ Camp Assistant says, clearly relieved.

  ‘Clive!’ One-Arm says. ‘Haven’t we forgotten something?’

  Here we go… don’t say I didn’t warn you…

  Fuck. Maybe I should have listened to schizo voice. And Christ, my knife is still in the pocket of my combats that are pooled on the changing-room floor. I should have known it was too good to be true. I wait for Camp Assistant to say something horrible: perhaps that the leather jacket is made out of human skin, or maybe he’s about to point out that all the mannequins are actually cadavers or something.

  There’s no such thing as a free lunch, Rhoda. They’ll want some kind of payment. Here’s the part where they ask you to lop off one of your fingers. Maybe dig out an eyeball.

  Camp Assistant cocks his head to one side and clicks his fingers. ‘Of course! Patrice, you’re absolutely right.’ He turns to me. ‘How remiss of me! Ma’am, please, let me show you the handbags, they are to die for.’

  ‘Lovely jacket,’ a wannabe Shopper with a diamanté eye-patch and a severe case of psoriasis says to me as he passes me on the escalators. I ignore him and concentrate on balancing on the escalator’s steps in the unfamiliar high heels. I almost stumble as I reach the top and start clacking my way towards the phone store.

  I keep catching glimpses of my reflection in the shop windows and it’s really starting to freak me out. The boots I picked up in Toe Jam next to the clothes store are the same chestnut brown leather as my bag and jacket, and the scarf I found in Splurge complements the dress underneath perfectly, but my hair just doesn’t go.

  Haven’t you got more important things to worry about, Rhoda? Like finding Dan, like staying alive?

  ‘Shut up!’

  ‘Ma’am, were you talking to me?’ A woman with a white afro and a leg that I’m almost sure has been cadged from a mannequin and stapled to the stump of her thigh smiles at me. The chain around her ankle is made of heavy spiked metal and disappears into the depths of the store behind her.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I wasn’t talking to anyone.’

  ‘Please!’ the woman fawns. ‘Come in. I just know I’ve got the perfect match for you.’

  ‘The perfect what?’

  I look past her to try and gauge what shop she’s attached to. It’s a plainly furnished store with nothing but photographs of apartments in the windows. An estate agency.

  Oh shit.

  ‘You know, I saw you and I thought, now there’s a Shopper in the market for a super-deluxe-special-three-sleeproomer-with-a-champagne-bar-and-access-to-the-swimming-pool-heated-of- course-and-don’t-forget-the-sauna-and-it’s-a-stone’s-throw-from-the-modification-Wards.’

  She gasps in a deep breath and edges closer, the chain attached to her ankle now almost taut. She cocks her head to one side. ‘It’s just come on the market, the last owner recycled. Would you like to see it? It’s got underfloor eating and a coruscated massage bed comes as an optional extra.’

  Snap out of it, Rhoda!

  ‘Um…’

  The woman smiles brightly at me again. She’s now so close that I can smell the queer medicinal odour that’s wafting out of her pores. ‘Most Shoppers would give their right leg to live there,’ she says, her voice now a honeyed whisper. ‘Did I mention it has a Jacuzzi?’

  ‘A Jacuzzi? Really?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she says
. ‘A big one. There’s no harm in looking, is there? What do you say?’

  No!

  I follow the woman into the agency, tuning out the voice of doom.

  ‘I say it must be fate,’ I say.

  chapter 20

  DANIEL

  I get back to the phone shop just as Colt is clicking out. She suppresses a laugh when she catches sight of me at the door. ‘Catalogue!’ she says. ‘Are you ready?’

  She leads me to a bank of lifts behind the escalators and presses the up button.

  ‘Can’t we take the stairs?’

  Colt just laughs and shakes her head in that ‘funny brown’ sort of way. ‘You’d walk a long time to get to Management. They’re in the Golden Tower.’

  ‘I don’t like lifts.’

  ‘Don’t worry. These are fast. And they have music.’

  I bite my tongue and force myself to follow her in. It’ll be fine, nothing will happen. I’m doing what they want, conforming, playing by the rules. I’m with one of their own. There’s no reason for them to fuck with me now.

  The muzak in the lift stays in the background as Colt stares at the doors and fiddles idly with the hair falling over the wound on her neck, humming along with the panpipe-and-synth rendition of ‘Nine to Five’. There’s no display inside the lift to tell us which floor we’re on. The lift hums steadily for a minute or two and I breathe out with relief when the doors open. We enter a spacious, marble-floored reception area with a large sign saying Personnel behind the wide counter. My heart thunders. We’re in the lion’s den. I can almost feel them nearby, I can almost smell the funk of evil seeping out from behind the marble façade.

  Bright light shines through a bank of windows to our left. Leaving Colt at the counter, I head over to them, hoping to catch a glimpse of Joburg beyond, hoping to orient myself, get some perspective on where the fuck I am; hoping to discover an escape route. But the windows only look onto a small recess with backlit advertising posters shining through them. One of them shows the amputated watch model, this time sprawled across the handles of a rusted motorbike. When I get back to the reception desk, Colt is talking to an orange-bewigged person in an expensively tailored suit. ‘I’m sponsoring a brown for employment.’