The Mall

by S. L. Grey

  Looking both ways to make sure Cleft Chin isn’t anywhere to be seen, I make my way down the corridor towards the mall. The doors to the other apartments stretch into the distance like those in a generic hotel. I pause to listen at a couple of them, but can’t hear anything. Their occupants are probably all at the mall. Shopping till they drop.

  I think you mean shopping till they die.

  As I reach the end of the corridor, an emaciated guy wearing one of those admiral costumes pops up from behind a concierge desk and rushes to open the glass doors that lead into the mall. ‘May I wish you a primo shopping experience, ma’am,’ he says.

  ‘Cheers,’ I say.

  ‘And may I mention that there’s a sale on at Corpsicle.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Better hurry,’ he says. ‘You don’t want to miss out.’

  I hesitate. ‘You worked here long?’ I say.

  ‘Indeed,’ he says proudly. ‘Since school.’

  ‘Did you know the person who lived in…’ Christ, I’ve forgotten the number of my apartment.

  401.

  ‘Right! 401. The shopper who lived there before me – did you know him or her?’

  ‘Shopper De Nooy? Of course I knew him. I know all the Shoppers, ma’am.’

  ‘What happened to him? Was he sick or old or something? Did he move?’

  He chuckles. ‘Move? Your language is interesting if I may say so, ma’am.’ He glances at his watch. ‘If I’m not mistaken he was recycled at oh nine seventy. Is there a problem with your new apartment? I can inform Management if so.’

  ‘No problem. None at all.’

  I nod at him and hustle away. I don’t actually want to know any more.

  Coward.

  It takes me a while to get my bearings. I hadn’t really been looking where I was going as I followed the estate agent to the apartment block. I decide to head towards the escalators, try to figure out where to go from there. A couple of approaching middle-aged women dressed in teenagers’ clothes step to the side as I pass. One of them has wrapped cling film around her neck in a poor attempt to smooth her wrinkles, and her friend has done something to her nose – the nostrils look as if they’re sealed up. They smile at me admiringly as I pass.

  ‘Hi,’ Cling Film says to me, and her friend gasps and nudges her.

  ‘I can’t believe you just spoke to a Shopper!’ the whisper follows me down the aisle. ‘Isn’t she beautiful!’

  I could get used to this.

  I sit back in the booth and take a deep drag on the Turkish cigarette. I picked up a carton from Emfyseema, after I’d checked out the sale in Jean-Pool. The picture on the fag box is almost laughably graphic: a man lying in a hospital bed, his legs gorily amputated, but who cares?

  Not me.

  My feet are killing me – I’m still battling to get used to the boots’ high heels – and my arms are aching from the weight of the bags I’ve been carrying around. But it’s a different sort of ache, almost comforting, as if I’ve achieved something. Which I suppose I have. Who knew I was such a natural at this shopping thing? I take a sip of champagne and mentally tot up my acquisitions. Not a bad haul. Practically a brand new wardrobe, plus there’s the water bed, the kid-leather lounge suite and the sheepskin rug I just had to have the second I saw it. I’ll need a table of some sort, but I’ve got my heart set on that see-through glass one I saw at Four Legs. Should I get it now? What if someone else nabs it in the meantime? My stomach squirms with anxiety at the thought, but I decide to finish my fag first.

  ‘More champagne, madam?’

  I nod and the waiter refills my glass. I try not to stare at the huge scab on the back of his neck as he wanders away. It’s his choice, though, right? At least that’s what Horrible Rat Woman said. The bubbles tickle my nose, and my head buzzes pleasantly. I’d discovered the oyster and champagne bar next to the lingerie emporium (Slut Bucket), and the waiter had almost fainted with delight as I’d followed him inside.

  This is the life.

  Of course, it isn’t really a life at all, is it?

  ‘Whatever.’

  The orange couple I’d seen earlier look over from their place at the bar and raise their champagne glasses to me. I smile back at them, light another cigarette with my brand new Zippo, and wrap a strand of my new hair extensions around my fingers. The hairdresser suggested I get my nails done next, and she might have a point. My bitten nubs don’t really go with the look, and a full set of red talons is a tempting proposition. And I should really check out that waxing place next to the Hippie Titus tattoo parlour.

  The couple slide from their stools and clack their way over to my booth.

  ‘Can we join you?’ the man says in a lispy, oddly high voice.

  ‘Please,’ I say. I glance at his feet. The toes of his shoes are filed to a sharp point. Something shifts in my head, but I push it away. I can’t stop thinking about that table. It really would go perfectly.

  The Shoppers sit down in front of me, squashing their bags around their legs. Now I’m up close to them, I can really see the amount of work they’ve had done. Tiny white scars nick the corners of the woman’s eyes where they’ve clearly been uplifted, and scar tissue scores the man’s forehead as if he’s had major surgery. Which I suppose he has. The top of his head bulges. Has he had some kind of bony prosthesis added there? Several expensive-looking watches are looped around the stump of the woman’s arm. She catches me looking at them and smiles.

  ‘Charles Pratt,’ she says. ‘Best in the mall. You must shop there.’

  The man nods and grins broadly, showing off his black gums that I now realise are tattooed. ‘Yes. You must.’ He strokes the woman’s arm. ‘Leletia is their mascot.’

  ‘Their what?’

  ‘We were just saying,’ the man says as if I haven’t spoken, ‘that you would make the perfect mascot for Skin Deep.’

  ‘Your skin,’ the woman says, gazing at the scar. ‘It’s so beautiful.’

  ‘Have you been assigned yet?’ the man asks.

  ‘Um. No. Not that I know of.’

  ‘Well, you must go there straight away. You can’t be a Shopper without advertising, can you? Not unless you want to depreciate.’

  They share a chuckle.

  ‘Can I ask you a question?’ I say. ‘This depreciate thing – what exactly does it mean?’

  You already know, Rhoda. Don’t be dense.

  The woman frowns and glances at her companion in confusion.

  ‘I’m new here,’ I say. ‘Don’t know all the rules yet.’

  ‘Depreciation is a matter for the Management. They decide when, of course.’

  ‘Right. And what actually happens to you?’

  ‘You get sent to the terminal Wards, of course!’ the woman says cheerfully.

  The man taps the top of his head, tracing a finger around the scar where his hairline would be. ‘For recycling.’

  Oh. My. Fucking. God.

  The woman smiles sympathetically and touches my arm. ‘But don’t worry, it takes ages to depreciate.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘That all depends on your purchasing output. And if you get a mascot contract you can extend your Shopping life for much longer.’

  ‘We must fly,’ the man says. ‘Shopping waits for no man, as they say!’

  They get to their feet, struggling with the bulging bags.

  ‘And remember,’ the woman says as they head out. ‘Skin Deep. You’ll be perfect!’

  My phone beeps. I scramble though my bags trying to remember which one I’d dumped it into. I finally locate it in the zip-up pocket of my new silk evening purse.

 

  Will you listen now?

  ‘Listen to what?’

  To what I’ve been telling you. Time to snap the fuck out of it. If you don’t leave now you’re dead, Rhoda. DEAD.

&nb
sp; ‘You don’t know that for sure.’

  And what about Dan?

  ‘Dan can look after himself.’

  Okay. If you don’t care about Dan, what about the kid?

  ‘What kid?’

  The waiter is watching me curiously. I’ve been speaking out loud again.

  THE KID! THE FUCKING KID! THE KID WHO’S THE REASON YOU’RE HERE IN THE FIRST PLACE!

  Oh fuck. I haven’t thought about him in Christ knows how long.

  What the hell was I thinking?

  And what the fucking hell am I doing?

  I stand up, sending my champagne glass flying across the table.

  Goth retard girl smiles at me vacantly as I race into the phone shop, stumbling in the unfamiliar boots, no sign of recognition on her stupid face. Mind you, what with the fake hair and bling clothes I must look like a completely different person.

  ‘Hello, ma’am!’ she says cheerily. ‘How wonderful to see you! May I—’

  ‘Where the fuck is Dan?’ I snap.

  Her smile slips slightly. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am?’

  ‘Cut the crap!’ I reach across the counter and grab the front of her T-shirt, pulling my face close to hers. ‘Where. The. Fuck. Is. Dan?’ I grab her shoulder and shake her roughly, but she continues to stare blankly back at me. ‘I know you know where he is. Now tell me!’

  Around me there’s the beep-beep-beep as every phone flashes into life.

  ‘I think that’s for you, ma’am!’ the girl says.

  My own phone beeps and vibrates in the pocket of my leather jacket. But fuck that, I’m not going to play their game any longer.

  I decide to try a different tactic. I slap a smile onto my face. ‘I need help. Last time I was here I was with a guy. Tall, longish black hair. Real coffin kid, you know.’

  ‘I do?’

  Deep breath. Don’t give up.

  ‘He was a… a… brown, like me.’

  ‘But you’re a Shopper.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘but I wasn’t always.’

  Now, that didn’t sound totally schizo.

  She clicks her fingers as if she suddenly understands. ‘You want to return something?’

  That’s it. If I stay here a second longer I’m going to punch her in the fucking face. I hare out of the shop.

  I skitter down the aisle, ignoring the smiles and admiring glances of the other Shoppers and wannabes, all of whom are lugging bulging plastic bags or pushing trolleys piled high with shit. How can I have taken their various plastic surgeries or injuries for granted for the last few hours?

  Duh. Brainwashed, that’s what you are.

  I can’t argue with that.

  ‘Ma’am!’ a shop assistant calls from the doorway of a boutique selling complicated and painful-looking bondage gear. ‘We’re having a sale!’

  ‘Fuck off!’ I snap at her as I pass.

  ‘Thank you for your time, ma’am!’ she calls after me.

  I’ve got myself into such a state that I race past the bookshop, and have to double back.

  Please be there, Dan, please!

  Might be too little too late. Prepare yourself.

  The store looks empty, but I can make out a figure behind the counter – a tall figure with long dark hair. Thank Christ.

  ‘Dan!’ I yell.

  He looks up.

  ‘Oh thank God!’ I say as I race up to him, now completely out of breath.

  He stares at me, eyes blank. I’m not sure what’s worse – his zombie stare or the fucking awful clown suit he’s wearing. But maybe he just doesn’t recognise me.

  ‘I know – the hair, right? Look, don’t ask. Now, get your arse into gear, we have to get the fuck out of here.’

  He stares back at me vacantly, and then a grin spreads across his face. ‘Good day, ma’am,’ he says. ‘How may I help you?’

  Oh shit. They’ve got to him. ‘It’s me, Rhoda!’ I yell into his face. ‘You know, scruffy Rhoda who kept telling you to fuck off?’

  He pushes a pile of books towards me. Their covers are emblazoned with Day-Glo stickers: Buy one, get three free, publishers clearing house. Wow. That’s a good deal. But I’d have to get a bookcase, and I’m sure I—

  RHODA!

  Christ. I tear my eyes away from the books. ‘Come on, Dan, say something!’

  For a second I think I can make out the glimmer of recognition in his eyes. I reach over and slap him on the cheek. ‘Dan! Come on! Snap out of it!’

  He shakes his head, as if he’s trying to clear it. There’s a filthy bandage taped to the back of his head, and my stomach slips as I take in the dark brown and pus-yellow stains on it.

  ‘Oh fuck,’ I breathe. ‘What have they done to you?’

  ‘Rhoda?’ he says in a small, tired voice.

  ‘Yes! It’s me!’

  He pauses, drops his head, and then raises it again, the inane grin back on his face. ‘Would you like to hear about our latest bestsellers?’

  chapter 22

  DANIEL

  ‘Would you like to hear about our latest bestsellers?’ I’m pleased with myself. I feel like I’ve chosen the exact right words.

  The Shopper gives me an angry glare but her rage only pumps more calm through me. She’s saying something else but I can’t really understand it because it doesn’t seem to have anything to do with our product range. I listen for keywords.

  The Shopper grabs my shirt. I can smell the delicious fragrance of her perfume. Touched by a Shopper on my first day! I hope the Representative is watching this! ‘… you don’t frhak dfao jakdgf, I Wilbur you…’

  ‘Wilbur Williams? We have it. We have most of his backlist too. The new one is only due at Creditmas, but we have his latest in paperback.’

  ‘… gadtggg hut the fuck up, Dan fgakst…’

  ‘Oh, yes. We do have it: Shut the Fuck Up and Earn. It’s currently on our business promotion and you get fifteen per cent off and bonus loyalty points with every purchase.’

  She removes her talons from my shirt and smooths it down over my chest. ‘Did you say bonus loyalty points?’ Now I can hear her.

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Double bonus points.’

  ‘And what can I do with the points?’ The Shopper starts to breathe more heavily, the satiny green of her dress rising and falling with each breath. It’s almost time to close the deal.

  It’s Rhoda, you fucking idiot. What have they done to her?

  ‘You get Book Bucks towards the purchase of your next book. Ma’am, our loyal Shoppers are very important clients. I can tell just by looking at you that you would spend your Book Bucks most elegantly.’

  The Shopper smiles. ‘Do you get a card?’

  What have they done to her?

  ‘Oh yes, ma’am. It’s a very attractive one.’ I pull one of the glittery, violet loyalty cards from under the register. She reaches out for it. I giggle coyly and snatch it away and slip a form and a pen in front of her. ‘Just your details and signature, ma’am, and it’s all yours.’

  What have they done to you? Rhoda?

  ‘Rhoda?’

  A contraction jolts down my brain stem. I must have said something wrong but I can’t remember what it was. The service enhancer will keep me in check.

  The Shopper looks at me and puts down the pen, shakes her head like she’s trying to dislodge something out of her ears. Kark, I’m losing her. They would be so proud of me if I sign up a Shopper on my first day. But now I’ve done something disregardful and I’m losing her.

  ‘Ma’am, has my service disappointed you? I will try harder. Or I may direct your custom to an officer you feel may better serve you.’

  ‘… ffgsak dghjcoo msbudgscx…’ The Shopper shakes her head and stalks away. Rhoda. It’s me, Dan. Help me.

  Kark! I’ve lost her. So close. So karking close.

  My phone beeps. The message contains the code for my thirty-moment victual break. I start copying it from my phone to my anklet and don’t just stand there idiot. You’re off shift. Go and
find Rhoda I’m not sure whether to click out, because it is rated as highly disregardful to move from behind the register when you are on a register shift. If I work hard enough, if I sign up some Shoppers and make high-percentile sales, then perhaps I will be assigned a merchandising shift. How long will it take before I get a merchandising shift? That’s a reward worth working towards! How exciting it will be to Shut the fuck up for Christ’s sake! Move! If you lose Rhoda now, it’s your last chance gone.

  Gordon arrives to cover me while I am on victual break.

  ‘You’re on break, Darneel.’ I admire his suit and his neat hairstyle while he speaks.

  ‘Oh. I wasn’t sure what to… I didn’t want to disregard…’

  ‘You browns are a spasm. It’s disregard not to go on break. Off you go. You only have twenty-eight moments left.’

  ‘Okay, thanks.’ I remember how to walk. I’m so pleased to have such reassuring colleagues. I am really loving my first day on the job.

  I enter the rest of the code and click out and suddenly I’m hearing these voices shouting in my head again. They’re confusing me. I should get some victuals but I’m not sure what this week’s tokens are for. Should I get a Daniel! Fuck’s sake! You’re running out of time. Find Rhoda!

  I rub at my penetration wound. This is new. My fingers come back bloody. What the fuck is this on my neck? Where am I? Where’s Rhoda?

  I’m trying to orient myself in the shop when jags of searing pain brand the back of my neck. I swing around.

  ‘Rhoda?’ She’s wearing a ridiculous green mini and leather jacket; her overdone make-up amplifies the burn scar on her face. She looks like she should be selling herself on Oxford Road. Not that that’s necessarily a bad thing. Her legs are thin and very long, and the mini very short. What a lovely Shopper, and I have had my neck scratched by her. My new colleagues are going to be so—

  Whack. Her slap brings me to myself again. ‘Christ, Rhoda,’ I manage to mumble, ‘what have they done to you?’ We’re standing in the greeting card section. ‘Congratulations on your illness’, reads one in lavender script lettering. ‘You put the amp in amputation’, says another.