The Biggerers

by Amy Lilwall

  ‘Batch Twenty. A newbie.’

  ‘The latest batch.’

  ‘Zero aggression.’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘Do you think she’s just scared?’

  The other biggerer pressed the door again. ‘Fear was excluded as a characteristic for Batch Twenty.’

  ‘Kids probably complaining that they couldn’t play with them because they were always hiding.’

  ‘I seem to remember that that was the reason.’

  ‘So, do we report her as an anomaly?’

  The other one looked at his bitten finger. ‘She didn’t draw blood,’ he said. ‘I think she was scared. Can you imagine witnessing all this for the first time? Then having a massive hand drag you from your cage? I wouldn’t care if fear had been excluded from me, I’d crap myself.’

  ‘Maybe that’s why she vomited.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Hey, sweetheart. Come here; we won’t hurt you. We just want to clean you up a bit.’

  Bonbon sat in her corner, shaking. She wasn’t called Sweetheart.

  A hand came back in and lay on the floor next to her. ‘Come on.’ She didn’t move, but allowed it to get nearer and pull her to the front of the cage.

  ‘You see, she’s shaking. She’s frightened.’

  ‘I know. But she shouldn’t be; not according to her make-up. We’ll have to keep an eye on her just in case,’ said the hand as it lifted her out of the cage. ‘She’s petrified!’ He shook his head. ‘Excluded as a characteristic indeed… Marketing bullshit. You know, there was “zero aggression” in Batch Seventeen, and what came out of Batch Seventeen?’

  ‘The Toe Biter of Michigan. Seriously? That was a “zero-aggression” batch? They kept that quiet.’

  ‘Of course they did.’ He reached behind Bonbon’s head again towards the glass door. Her eyes followed the hand. Squiggles and lines glowed green across it. ‘It’s noted. The “scared” part anyway. I don’t want to get her into any trouble.’

  Something moved at the side of Bonbon’s eye. She tilted her head back to see what it was. More glass doors. She tilted her head further, her eyes climbing up her forehead until she could see twenty glass doors and twenty tiny faces staring out from them. Maybe it was even more than twenty… Were there any numbers after twenty? There seemed to be more than one face for each of her fingers and toes; each one looked at her, blinking, a tiny white cushion thing stuck to the same side on each head. She put her hand to her own ear, it was still there, the thing. She screwed up her eyes and patted it softly.

  The big he-one looked at her and laughed. His mouth smelled like the brown stuff that covered up the plant’s legs. ‘Targets are evil things, sweetheart. Believe me, that’s not why I’m here; we don’t like targets, do we, Mac?’

  ‘Not one bit,’ said Mac, shaking his head at each word.

  ‘Be thankful that the other one is on holiday,’ said the one who wasn’t Mac. ‘You got Dr Lilly; she’s got a conscience.’ He opened the big door. ‘That other one – what’s her name? The one with the hair… She prefers more profitable procedures.’

  ‘Breast reduction: last month’s thing,’ said Mac.

  ‘Yep. And before that it was rib removal.’

  ‘It’ll come back around.’

  ‘It always does.’

  ‘Tell him that I’ve got an hour free at one – he can come back then if he likes.’

  ‘Okay, Hamish.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He clicked off the tablet that was propped up on his desk and swivelled to face his bookshelf.

  His bookshelf.

  The newest one, well, the latest edition shined in its plastic cover. It looked very young compared to its leather-bound colleagues. Another one from The Bookman who shopped at Shepherd’s – they had started chatting after being the only ones standing at the big glass-topped barrel with plastic vines twisted around it, grimacing over polystyrene thimbles full of melon-flavoured cognac.

  He pressed a button and the glass screen hummed aside letting out the smell of old paper. He flexed his feet as his calves tingled. Thirty-six books! Whenever his work colleagues dropped by for some reason or another, they were always looking past his shoulder at the bookcase.

  He spread a sheet of plastic over his desk and tugged his latex gloves. ‘Filters!’ he called, and the lights faded to a dim yellow.

  Now then, if he had a client at one, that gave him two hours of reading. Calves still tingling, he wiggled his toes and opened the book.

  ‘Oh… You’re in darkness.’

  He looked up. ‘Emma!’

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late.’

  He fumbled for the on-switch on the tablet. ‘I didn’t think we had a… Lights! I didn’t think we had an appointment today?’

  She squinted through the now white lighting. ‘Yes. I changed it… I couldn’t make next Friday so I changed it.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Did you feel that? Your tablet booted 132 per cent faster than before you installed Hug Virus Protection. Ah good… Yes, he had felt that. He looked about the screen for somebody to thank before tapping on ‘Agenda’. A blank white rectangle stretched from 11 a.m. to 1 p.m. Never mind, he wasn’t about to send her away. ‘So you did. Well, do come in.’ He closed the book and swivelled to place it back in the cabinet.

  She smirked. ‘A tablet. Very retro.’

  He swivelled back and blinked, trying to work out what his face was doing and how to answer her at the same time. His mouth was open. He closed it. Why was she here? Why had no one told him that she was coming? ‘Oh, um… Yes. Actually. It’s for confidentiality reasons. You know… So you can’t see what, erm, I’ve got on, you know; my agenda.’ He pursed his lips and sniffed. ‘I do have the new stuff as well.’ He tapped the centre of the desk. Transparent green and blue pixels swarmed upwards to form a face just in front of her stomach. It opened its mouth then fragmented and disappeared back into the table. Hamish had turned it off. He breathed in through his nose and clasped his hands in front of him. This was not supposed to be a show-and-tell.

  ‘You have a lot of books, I never noticed before.’

  ‘You didn’t?’ He flicked a look at the bookcase. Why did that disappoint him?

  She shook her head. She was wearing the same earrings as last time. Oh dear! This time she only had one; she must have dropped it – ‘You, erm…’ No. It was none of his business if she wanted to go about with one earring. ‘Do sit down, Emma.’ She sat and bent forward to put her bag down. It was bleeding; there was blood coming from her ear! ‘Oh dear… There’s blood coming from your ear.’ She stuck a finger in her ear and he handed her a sheet of Fibre-Web. ‘I mean – where your earring should be, not your ear ear.’ He made circles with a pointing finger to indicate the bit around her ear ear, then tucked his hand back inside the other one that waited alone on the desk.

  She scrunched her earlobe and the Fibre-Web together. ‘Oh – I knew he had pulled it out but I hadn’t realized it was bleeding.’

  ‘Are you alright?’ No gestures.

  ‘Yes! He, um… I have this um, pet – kitten actually – and, well…’ She pointed to her ear with her free hand.

  He wanted to say that cats were very ‘retro’ accessories. Instead, he said: ‘Ah.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed.

  He wanted to say that this kind of thing is part of the ‘pet package’. Instead, he said: ‘Well…’

  ‘Yes.’ She laughed and cast her eyes down. Her eyelids were powdery brown.

  He didn’t bring it up this time; that problem he’d thought about the time before last. There was too much of it in the room to talk about it. Little sparks of it made the air twinkly and dizzying and so it was better just to ignore it. He tried to bare his pupils again, to focus on something that wasn’t blinking about in front of him in a million fragments, but his eyes searched her so thoroughly that his ears began to ring. This was ‘being alert’ he thought, before some sort of reaction. But what was th
e reaction? Was she reacting and so he was reacting to her reaction? And then she to his? This could go on for the whole session; looking with exposed pupils was really not helping. There had to be a ‘filter’. He decided to take notes, typing faster than the air could blink and asking himself every few sentences if this was real life… Was he really living this? And every time he asked himself, his typing hands got shakier and so he typed faster.

  By the end of the session he was sweating.

  He had typed up every word she’d said.

  Jinx was the first to wake up and roll over. Oh! Bonbon was already up! That was strange… Usually Jinx woke up at the same time as Bonbon. She sat up and stretched her arms so high that her ears touched the knobbly bit on her shoulder, then crawled to the edge of the basket. One of the bowls was full. Bonbon must have eaten hers…

  Oh, but… Bonbon wasn’t there. The basket bottom stretched beside her, wrinkled and empty; feathers and AstroTurf gathered at the corners. Bits of fluff that had started out big and floaty were now dark and flattened. She rubbed one eye. Chips had been there. And now he was gone. And there was no Bonbon.

  She slumped against the side of the basket and wrapped some string around her thumb. She should be eating, not wrapping string. Then she would say to Bonbon: ‘What day is it today?’ and Bonbon would say: ‘It’s… It’s…’ Oh dear. Jinx couldn’t even remember what day it was. Not without Bonbon.

  Her mouth pulled at the corners. It didn’t really feel like eating now.

  Her eyes flicked up towards the kitchen door: had the She-one filled up her bowl before or after Chips had gone? Jinx sat up. If it was before then… the She-one must have seen Chips and scared him into Outside.

  Jinx jumped up, climbed out of the basket and ran towards the vacuum hatch.

  * * *

  ‘Goodness me, what’s wrong with you? Do you want a biscuit? Is that what you’re after?’ Drew slouched back against the worktop. ‘You’re going to turn into a right little porker, Mr J.’

  Jasper put his backside on the floor and bent his head to one side. His ears swelled and drooped like wind-filled spinnakers as they sorted through the air for tasty-sounding syllables.

  Drew bent and looked into the cupboard that had been cleared of stained Tupperware, dusty packets of paper cupcake-cases, a beer-mug full of takeaway chopsticks and a pond-coloured 1970s fondue set, to make room for the treats that Watty and Drew shared with Jasper. ‘Right; let’s see if we can find you something doggy.’

  The dog danced his front paws and squeezed out the highest little moan.

  ‘Oh no. Not this as well! Have you seen this, Jasper? This was one of my favourite bloody brands.’

  Jasper barked and gazed at the blue packet that was being waved about.

  ‘You’ll just have to wait, I’m afraid. I know you want one but…’

  Drew stood, phone to ear, mouthing ‘sshh’ at the dog. ‘Oh hello, um, I was reading the ingredients of your Wholegrain Organic Bear Bars and I was wondering if you could explain to me what is meant by hydrogenated vegetable oil? Mmm-hmm, right… Yes, I know what hydrogenated means, sorry, I should have been clearer; what vegetable oils do you use? Right. Mmm. Palm oil? It is palm oil or it isn’t? It is. Right. Thought so. Oh well… Thank you. B-bye.’

  Drew pressed the red phone button on the handset. ‘This really pisses me off, Mr J. Look at this lovely packaging, look at these silver bears gazing up at their snowy bloody mountain,’ waving the blue packet again before tucking it under one arm. ‘It’s all so dreamy yet… They use cheap, poisoned oil,’ letting a hip fall against the worktop and staring into nothing. ‘I love Bear Bars.’

  Jasper marched his front feet again and moaned, staring at Drew’s underarm.

  ‘Loved Bear Bars.’ Drew slouched back against the worktop and thought for a while before putting the biscuits down and walking away.

  Jasper looked between Drew and the worktop until the gap between them got so big that he had to push up a bark.

  ‘Oh right,’ swivelling round. ‘Sorry, Mr J. Let’s see if we can find you something a bit more doggy.’

  Another loud, high-pitched noise cut through the air. Drew and Jasper turned their heads towards it.

  ‘Drew! This thing is bleeping! Drew!’

  Drew leapt across the kitchen, toes turned out. The outline of Watty could be seen through an open door, standing over a giant incubator with a great transparent egg inside. Drew swished through the door and slotted into the gap between Watty and the incubator.

  ‘What is it, Drew? Is there something wrong with her?’

  In the middle of an egg-shaped container, a tiny person bobbed in liquid, a red tube attaching her to the wall of the egg. Other tubes and wires anemone-d out from various parts of her body. ‘I think… I think she might be ready to come out.’

  ‘Oh!’ Shit! Watty’s head flicked around as a search-for-help reflex, or a run-away reflex, or maybe a hope-nobody-is-watching reflex. Jasper watched from the doorway, his halfway-up tail hammocking lazily. ‘But she’s not due until next Wednesday!’

  ‘I know!’

  ‘Was that a sort of oven-bleep then? To tell us that she’s ready?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘But how does she know?’

  ‘She doesn’t. The womb does.’

  ‘How come you don’t?’

  ‘I thought I did. I had planned to get her out on Wednesday!’ Drew bit a lip at Watty. The busy hands had stopped and rested on the surface of the liquid-filled oblong.

  They blinked at each other, the loud bleeping continuing in the background. A bang came up from the floor below them.

  ‘Old Beverly’s broom,’ said Drew.

  ‘Right.’ Watty snapped out of the mutual stare. ‘What can I do?’

  ‘Um…’

  ‘Can you shut that bleeping off?’

  ‘Not yet, well, I could… I…’ Two strong hands climbed through the air and hung like creamy stars, one at each side of Drew’s head. ‘Nothing about this procedure should be rushed.’

  ‘Okay… How about I go and tell Old Beverly that we’re having a problem with… something. I’ll think of something.’

  ‘Yes… Do… before she calls the police. And make sure you lock me in, won’t you?’

  * * *

  Awake. Bonbon opened her eyes to the ceiling of her cage. The light was bright and everywhere, not like normal light. She was still there but couldn’t tell if it was daytime or night-time. Was she hungry? She swallowed and thought about her stomach. It fizzed and got smaller. No. Not hungry. Maybe it was still night-time.

  ‘Hello, sweetie!’

  She turned her head. The She-one! Oh! It was the She-one standing in the doorway! She sprang up and threw herself at the door. The She-one’s face got all wrinkly and blinkey as she looked at the other cages.

  ‘We’ll bring her out to you. You can’t come in here,’ said another she-one from somewhere that Bonbon couldn’t see.

  ‘I’ll see you in a minute,’ waved the She-one, wiggling her fingers at Bonbon before opening the line in the door and going through it.

  Bonbon stared at the line. A hand appeared at her glass hatch, opened it and caught hold of her, pulled her out, dunked her up to the neck in warm tile-smelling liquid and wrapped her in a blanket. ‘Stain… Oh crap, that won’t do.’ She was unwrapped and rewrapped in a colder blanket. A giant finger and thumb held her eyelids back, shone a light into each eye and then into her ‘good’ ear. A comb was pulled through her hair three times and then: ‘Right, kiddo, you’re good to go’. And they were leaving the room.

  Bonbon looked back towards all the little faces, her eyes jumping to one in the top corner. The ‘right’ corner, Jinx would say. Or the left. It must have been the left. Left was a nicer word… the face’s hair was white; its skin was weird; floppy and lined and… Weird. One green eye and one brown eye stared out from the lines and flops. The head nodded at her and was gone. No! Bonbon tried to say, reaching out of her bla
nket and back towards the room, scratching at the air.

  ‘Bonbon! Oh my Bonbon.’

  She spun around. It was the She-one! She grabbed handfuls of the fingers that held her and lunged towards the shoulder, taking mouthfuls of hair and breathing long breaths of She-one smells… Hmmm… ‘I think someone’s pleased to see you.’ That voice. The first voice that she had heard when she came here yesterday and her hands clutched even more tightly to their clumps of finger.

  ‘As I was saying, Batch Mode is the one I normally go to.’

  ‘And do they have an actual address or do I order online?’

  ‘Yes, absolutely; they have an address.’

  ‘Wow. That’s a rarity.’

  ‘Tell me about it! I was thinking about this last week because my plant-food provider has kept their address a secret for years…’

  ‘Like the banks?’

  ‘Yeah, like the banks, except they’ve gone one step further: just recently, they’ve even taken the contact number off their emails.’

  ‘So you can’t call them?’

  ‘I can’t call them, no.’

  ‘Even if you have a… a plant-food crisis?’

  ‘Nope. Can’t call them.’

  Susan smirked. ‘Banks I can understand but…’

  ‘I know, right?’

  They looked at each other for a moment, smirking and nodding.

  ‘So you usually go to Batch Mode.’

  The doctor’s face was serious again. ‘Usually, yes.’

  ‘Not Mini-Me’s?’

  ‘Mini-Me’s is good, but I normally go to Batch Mode.’ The doctor nodded slowly and closed one eye.

  Ah. Of course… ‘Slander’ ruined people like her all the time. ‘You should get one of them to sponsor you, then you could relax about giving recommendations,’ Susan offered while stroking Bonbon’s head.

  ‘We have a contract with our suppliers,’ said the doctor. ‘Their competitors are also very good but unfortunately, they don’t make humcoats.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say.’

  Susan breathed back a giggle. ‘Righto.’ She picked up her bag. ‘Thank you for everything, Doctor.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  She would enjoy telling Hamish about the ‘liberty’ thing, Susan thought as she strapped Bonbon into the car. He would growl out a low chuckle; the one he used when he heard a dirty joke. ‘Oh Bonbon…’ She looked at the white bandage on the side of Bonbon’s head. ‘I’m so sorry.’ Bonbon caught one of the charms on Susan’s bracelet in one hand and rubbed it with the other. ‘Right,’ Susan smiled down at her, ‘let’s go to Batch Mode because it’s better than Mini-Me’s.’ She rounded the car and strapped herself into the front seat. ‘Batch Mode,’ she sang to the WayToGo, ‘because Mini-Me’s is totally shit,’ she laughed.