After Hope Dies

by Lilly Haraden

  ‘I’ll let you know when I find out.’

  ‘Take care, old friend.’

  Bax makes his way to the car.

  The Back Door is at the bottom of the Power Down slope. A warehouse stacked beside a bus depot. Grey. But plenty of parking outside. Bax’s shadow buzzes beside him in the car, quiet and sad like a dying flame. It knows what this place is. Yet, the man must move. No bouncer, no grace to the air as Baxter takes to the front concrete door, pushes, descends into the dark hell below. Smoke and fire and dance music. Grime. A trap for heat. The thickness of it all creating a pall of pollution that sticks to the man’s clothes. The dance floor is squalid and cramped, like an afterthought beside the main stage where girls dance listless. Shadows here too, but these are real men, poor men waving hundreds between their fingers to try and catch the attention of the things on stage. Everything here pretends to be something it is not. The children pretend to be adults because Back Door can’t afford the child licences, clients pretend to be rich, and this bar pretends that it can make an Appletini with bourbon but it probably couldn’t manage cold water.

  Bax sits at the bar, grabs the attention of a nappy-haired girl behind the counter. Bored, she lolls over and cocks her head, stabs, ‘Wut?’

  ‘Treasure.’

  ‘Wut? Speak up.’

  Bax waits a few moments to show his disgust – his suit’s going to need a dryclean to get the smell of this place out – and leans in, says at exactly the same volume, ‘Treasure.’

  ‘New girl? She busy.’

  ‘No she ain’t.’

  ‘Well, too busy for you.’

  Jesus. Bax doesn’t have the patience to play the ‘bitch I ain’t no broke-ass nigger, who do you think you are,’ game that she’s putting on to try and inflate his ego. Instead, he pulls out a roll of hundreds and slides the five across the bar and says, ‘Half an hour.’ It’s the price of a decent lunch downtown. Like a good thick cut sandwich with cold press coffee, maybe something on the side too like a pot of salted butter. So, basically, bread and butter.

  Bored, the waitress takes the cash and flicks her hair in the direction of the back rooms. ‘Three-oh-five.’

  Baxter sniffs his displeasure and nods.

  ‘Half an hour, I come and get you.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’

  Three-oh-one: occupied. Three-oh-two: occupied. There’s crying coming from three. Bax stops and listens to the deep filtered, faraway-closeby sound of someone slapping hard against a girl unwilling to cooperate. On he walks. Stops outside the green velvet door with the silver number emblazoned on the fabric. He doesn’t knock as he enters.

  It’s the size of a hotel bathroom. They’ve squeezed a couch and mattress in here along with some full length mirrors to give the illusion of space. TV casting lurid shadows. Within this gilded cage lies the prize: a young prostitute in tights and a white top that sits around her shoulders. Hair all over the place like a cloud of static electricity. Dark skin, dark eyes giving him the up and down from her perch on the arm of the sofa. They don’t let the girls wash or breathe after serving the clients. That reduces the return on investment, the time spent away from sucking dick. So, in a little room in an unlicensed brothel under an old warehouse in a shitty district in a broken city, a child sits inside a room full of mirrors and waits for that door to open. That is her life.

  Bax closes the door and sets himself down upon the couch. Girl gets up and moves in the opposite direction, eyes still on him. In her drawl, the creature yawns out, ‘Whadya want.’

  The man makes a ‘come here’ motion with his finger and the girl, after a long eye-roll, a long moment’s pause, strolls into his sphere, into the V-space between his legs. Bax whispers over the quiet of this place, ‘Treasure, yeah?’

  ‘Right.’

  Baxter keeps his finger raised and pointed direct and flat to the girl’s nose. Examining the weight of her, the man muses quiet, ‘There’s somethin’ dark inside you.’

  If you look closely, maybe you can tell. There’s a strange discolouration to her skin, see. Like the intensity behind a storm cloud – a purple quality full of electricity and anger. It shimmers under the still lake of her skin. A shadow playing by a cold fire. Bax stands upright, tall, and the girl takes a pace backwards, stops, matches the man’s eye. Blinks.

  And Baxter swings his arm back. As hard as he can, as fast and deep as he can, he draws an arc across the air and strikes the girl across the cheek. His hand connects with her face but the shock of the full force bitch-slap…simply vanishes. No sting on his hand. No reverberation in his bones. No response from the girl. No cry, no blink, not even a deflection of the chin. It’s as if Baxter cut straight through the child. Yet, he did strike her, no? He touched her, no? That coldness of her cheek, that grain in her presence…

  Unamused, droll, the girl mumbles, ‘You wan me to pretend like I can feel it? I can scream and cry if that’ll get cha hard.’

  Holy fuck. Baxter feels his heart beat fast and putrid. What fucked up kind of clientele have they got this girl serving? The man lowers his hand and flexes the fingers, making sure he didn’t break anything on the brick-wall stoicism of this girl. This child. This unfeeling thing. Baxter laughs once – a single, cold stab – and asks the girl, ‘“Treasure”. What do they call you now?’

  ‘Ice.’

  The man nods, brings two fingers up in a closed peace sign and, before the child can move away, presses them against her cherry dark lips. Connection. Warmth. A spark of surprise runs across the child’s eye. Baxter feels his throat catch on fire, the charm from earlier that day now awake and active. Channelling the magic through his chest, up into his throat and out in a word that doesn’t exist, the man pulls back with his fingers as the connection becomes light. A string of green soul spills from the girl’s lips like a long saliva spaghetti. Baxter presses the end to his own lips and drinks in her soul. Child backs up into the mirror walls, swipes anxious at the connection between man and her, but the energy drains fast from her small body. Limp, ragged, she flops back into the reflection of her and sags down until she is useless.

  Baxter drinks the poison away. There is no taste, only the feeling of misery on the tongue. He feels the small weight of the monster writhe in his throat until it freezes over by action of the charm. Yes, Maple will certainly benefit from having this minor monster inside of her in place of that Reverser tapeworm. All done, he cuts the connection dry with his teeth and lets the soul line wither away into the air. Man moves to the dry body of child and scoops her up in his arms, turns to the couch, sets her down with her head resting on his knee. Rests. He makes circles around her back to warm her back to life. Child whimpers, starts to shake, her eyes set to nowhere. Bax reaches into his pocket and pulls something out.

  ‘Here,’ Bax says as he offers the child a sweetie. ‘Suck on this. It’ll give you a little boost.’

  With a hand stuffed rigid with torpor, the child reaches up so ginger and gentle, plucks the pack away and tears it open. Sucks quiet. Baxter explains as he pulls Shandian from his pocket, ‘I’m taking you away from this place. You don have to work here no more.’

  In a ghostly whisper: ‘I don wan work again.’

  ‘You signed a contract, no?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘I can take care o that. Work for me. I’ll make sure you don’t suffer away in a basement.’

  ‘I don wan work again.’

  ‘Think on it. Now, little miss, there’s something I wan from you in return.’

  Treasure doesn’t reply. Baxter catches her eye in the mirror. Holds up his phone. Points to it, says, ‘You get me past the Aqua level on Candy Crush.’

  Half asleep, girl replies, ‘I suck your dick too?’

  ‘What?’ Bax shoves the phone in front of the girl’s nose and she takes it lazy, reaches up with her other hand and begins to play. Girl mumbles, ‘Some men like it.’

  ‘Some men.’

  Twenty minutes later, she’s passed Aqua and
headed into the Diamond Island. Fritzy’s going to pop a fuse if he discovers that Bax’s secret to victory is to let the girls play. Girl hands the phone back to Bax and murmurs, ‘Whas yaw name, mister?’

  ‘Baxter.’

  ‘Where you work?’

  The man smiles. ‘A little place called the Magic Carpet Ride.’

  And the girl’s eyes turn to moons. ‘Shit. Really?’

  ‘Really really.’

  ‘Wow. I hear the owner is the devil.’

  ‘Half true,’ Bax confesses. ‘But he’s got a good side, I reckon. Let me talk to him, see if I cayn’t get you in?’

  Treasure nods, still with her head on his thigh. The man makes a few more circles around the child’s back, soothing her return into a world of normal feeling. Warmth, after an age of cold. How long, Baxter wonders. When the knock comes at the door, Treasure gives the man a horrified look and the man senses the problem. ‘I’ll take care of it,’ he says before standing, making his way to the door and throwing her a look over his shoulder. A smile. Possibly her first in quite some time.

  The bartender bitch is back, looking even more unimpressed with Baxter than before. Man closes the door behind him as the woman says, ‘Get what you wan’?’

  ‘She don’t work again today. Get her out of the room.’

  ‘Why. You break her?’

  Baxter can’t be arsed to play along with her second round of games. So he reaches into his suit pocket and pulls out the suitable bribe, plonks it between the girl’s hands and murmurs low into her ear, ‘She ain’t coming back here no more. I just bought her.’

  Afro lady looks down at the remarkable sum in her hands with unbelieving eyes, shaking fingers. She tries to start up again but Baxter can’t be arsed to play along with the final round of games – ‘who do you think you are, this isn’t enough, etc’ – and he nods for the woman to go fetch his property. Out comes Treasure looking as though she just won the lottery. Bax offers the child a hand, says, ‘Come on.’

  The two walk away from the brothel owner, back into the industry smog of outside, back into the daylight. Treasure blinks hard, shields her eyes from the milky afternoon sun as though she hasn’t seen daylight in, say, the three weeks she’s been working at this horrible place.

  ‘I’ll take you home, ok?’

  ‘Ok.’

  Treasure smiles. But it’s a faint, drawn out, tired, dejected kind of smile. Still, a smile.

  Mistake #5 – “Modified MPR, PTV, Universal Suffrage and Freeloading: An alternative voting platform for a modern, democratic election process.” by Monae, D.C. and Banks, E.N

  Treasure lives inside a Shit Stack the colour of an aborted dream. Bax thinks a mural once lived upon the first three floors but now it’s just a faded mess of streaky colour and outlines, like a vertical crime scene. Yet the girl skips her merry way into the front door where urine-yellow light spills out in the flow of early evening. Treasure turns and waves to Bax. Bax raises a finger from the steering wheel and regrets not escorting her inside to make sure she isn’t molested on the way upstairs. All gone now. And the place takes on an eerie quiet. Shit Stacks aren’t supposed to be quiet places. They’re like beehives of hidden activity where one false move sets all the soldiers inside off. A pheromonic, demonic kind of tripwire.

  Beside the man, the shadow buzzes, “Best be getting’ a move on, Baxter.”

  ‘Yes ma’am.’

  “Sad place, ain’t it? Sort of like a beehive all quivering and waiting to go off at the slightest…”

  Bax starts up the engine, ‘Yes ma’am,’ and drives off.

  At the top of the Power Down slope there’s no such powderkeg of sad energy. Far from it. Incredible fact #1: richer people have fewer poverty-related problems. The councils here take care of the trees, the tax breaks take care of the people, and the people take care of each other, sometimes. Green lines the centre of the road like an enticing strip of pubic hair teasing you along to the prize, the promise of good stuff just around the corner. Man oh man, these mansion houses. What Baxter could do with such a place. Incredible fact #2: Baxter can afford to buy one of these but likes to convince himself that it’s out of his league. Keeping it real, you know? Just hustling, pimping out the bodies of children, you know how it is…

  Baxter sighs. That’s the flavour of silent judgement he’s not at all looking forward to this evening.

  This house here is his destination. Solar roofing glints like obsidian flame over the neat cut roof. If you look closely at the front door you can see the CCTV security module built in over the frame, like a little black star in a quiet sky of night. Picture perfect is this place. Incredible fact #3: a black man lives here. Holy shit, they’re not all poor?? Come, I’ll prove it to you. Baxter steps from the car and makes his way up the gardener-pampered lawn and into the warmth of the front door. Knock Knock. Doorbells are so old fashioned. Baxter fluffs his collar and smoothes out the peacock creases as he listens to the pitter patter rhythm of a child approach from inside. Door opens and reveals…

  ‘Uncle Baxter!’

  ‘Kiddo, hey!’ and he scoops down to pick up his niece, boops her on the nose and ruffles her nappy afro into a new shape. She’ll be his height once puberty starts. Coming up to working age too, you know? Girl giggles with delight and says with starry eyes, ‘Let’s play a game!’

  ‘Oh, what sorta game? Hang on, let’s slip inside before the cold catches us. There. Oritey, what’re we playen?’

  ‘Super Smaaaaash Brothers!’

  Baxter makes a face as he carries the girl through the home, says, ‘Oh man, I don’t know if I can handle you beatin me again. Smash ain’t kind to me…’

  ‘I’ll go easy on you.’

  ‘Sure but let me say hi to Daddy first,’ and they swoop into the kitchen. Jesus. Every time. This place is like walking into a white person’s show room where everything is kept in pristine condition by a neurotic forty-something Republican. DON’T TOUCH THE KITCHEN TOP, I JUST CLEANED IT, MARCUS. Now, multiply that over everything. Mmm, smells like dishwashing soap and wine. Ah, here’s Dylan, using the kitchen top as a makeshift work desk. All dressed up from work – navy suit, silk tie, hot-damn new shoes, wow. I mean, they’re not alligator or crocodile, but still. The man turns and cuts the distance to his brother, gives Bax a little sidehug to leave room for Jacquelyn. Dylan says to his daughter, ‘Dinner’s gon be ready in fifteen, why don’t you finish up your homework before we start? Then you can show Uncle Bax how to win at Smash Brothers.’

  Jacquelyn wriggles free of Baxter’s grip and laughs her way to the back rooms, says over her shoulder, ‘He’ll never beat me! I got Diddy Kong on lock.’

  Out she goes. Diddy Kong needs to be nerfed, he’s too powerful. Bax muses, ‘Never seen a kid want to do homework.’

  ‘Anything for more games. It’s like crack, man. Get you a beer?’

  Bax smiles, nods. Dylan opens the Westinghouse to fetch two Australian imports – White Rabbits (good by AU standards, stellar by EUS’s) – and pops the tops. They cheers and after a good sip, Dylan leans against the fridge and says, ‘Work?’

  ‘Busy.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Run you through my day?’

  Dylan makes a hand gesture. Bax rests opposite his brother, murmurs so little J won’t hear, ‘There’s an unlicensed brothel downtown where they kept a girl in an unventilated, windowless room for six hours a shift, no break between clients. There’s a girl in dire need of help that’s going to be doing some work for me. There’s a Mayor downtown that needs to be threatened to do something moral for a change.’

  ‘Did he read our proposals?’

  ‘Barely. The policy will get to good eyes, I hope.’

  Dylan nods but says, ‘It better – those drafts took endless hours. Don’t matter if the Mayor reads it or not – the policy directors are the target, and they’re anal as hell, in a good way. More importantly, it could help a lot of people not get screwed over by the type of heavy hande
d anti-prostitution laws brewing on the horizon…’

  Bax offers a mock toast, ‘So here’s to us – Monae and Monae, two LLMs, partners, helping prostitutes by day and drafting legislation by night. Momma said we’d make good lawyers, and at least one of us is using the qualification.’

  ‘That she did. Can you stay a while after dinner?’ Dylan nods to the piles of paper over by the Nespresso, to a laptop open with a dreary looking paper on the screen. He says, ‘Need a pair of eyes over this article that we’re draftin’ on a new STV proposal.’

  Bax nods. Yeah, that’s what Dylan does for a living: policy development and legal. Here’s the paper he’s co-authoring with a statistician and politics lecturer in UTZurich: “Modified MPR, PTV, Universal Suffrage and Freeloading: An alternative voting platform for a modern, democratic election process.” Doesn’t quite have the same sex appeal as a hashtag, does it, even though the contents of this paper could end up changing the course of American history. Trouble is, it takes years of boring, hard, unrewarding work to make change. That’s mostly why change will never come to the EUS. The sad truth is this: the level of poison that’s corroded Eastern America’s soul can’t be undone by public protests and social movements and timely hip hop anthems. The problems that have beset the country are now a fundamental disease. You can’t cure cancer with band-aids. But every little bit counts, right? Wrong. Some little bits are entirely worthless. Remember: small candles, large shadows. Fortunately, you’ve got people like Dylan to help out. Someone who can leverage a corrupt brother to slip policy changes into the hands of the Mayor…but even the Mayor has limits on the level of corruption he can undo.

  Basically, there’s no hope for America anymore.

  Anyway.

  Dinner is roast chicken and vegetables! Yum!

  After dinner, J grabs her uncle by the hand and steers him into the play room where a TV the size of a renaissance masterpiece resides with pride on the wall. To the man’s great surprise, as J plonks herself on the couch, she says to Baxter, ‘Hey, can you read me a story?’