Seoul Survivors

by Naomi Foyle

  Bullfrog nodded. He understood numbers, evidently. They all did.

  The money exchanged hands, Rattail palmed him the key and Johnny opened the door to the lounge. Bullfrog wheeled the gurney in front of the sofa and stepped back.

  “Okay. Now fuck off.”

  Johnny waited until the two Koreans had left the morgue, then shut the lounge door and locked himself in with the corpse.

  Here she was, Kim’s dream-baby avatar, laid out, legs spread. Her skin, well, her skin had an unappealing sheen to it, like sweet and sour chicken that had been sitting on the buffet too long. But he wouldn’t be male if he didn’t get pumped looking at that hot pussy: red and juicy, it was just waiting to be fucked—and how about that face, the face of the woman he hated most in the world. It would be something, wouldn’t it? To see that body walking around in Kim’s designer clothing, Kim’s voice coming out of its mouth, and know he’d been there first. The Doc would be so pissed if she knew.

  His cock thickened. The room was warm and sweat tickled his armpits. If he did this, he would be laughing inside every time he talked to the Doc, and she’d sense it; she’d feel uneasy, disrespected, though she wouldn’t know why. The Kim box would be ticked for now, so he could turn his full attention to the question of how he was going to make Sydney Travers wish she’d never been born. Yeah, fucking a corpse might not be the crowning glory Ratty’s and his chum seemed to think, but it was a step in the right direction—and who knows, maybe he would get a taste for dead meat: dead blonde meat. Now there was an arousing thought.

  He unbuckled his belt, unzipped his jeans and took out his cock. It was a cast-iron bar in his hand.

  For a moment he hesitated. He could just wank over the face . . .

  No—well, yeah; he’d pull out and come on Kim’s face later, but when Johnny Sandman opened an account, he liked to take a tour of the vaults. He shoved the gurney against the wall and pulled the body’s legs up around his thighs. The head lolled to one side, the hair disarrayed on the sheet. Sexy. Very sexy. The tip of his cock nosed the wet snatch and he groaned. Fuck condoms; anything nasty would be dead by now, wouldn’t it? Lifting the legs up into a V for Victory, he spat, a big gob, onto Kim’s precious face. It landed—bulls-eye—on her mouth, a shiny oyster disappearing between her parted lips as a trail of drool slid down the side of her chin and settled in the stitches on her throat. Blood flooded Johnny’s skull. “Is that what you’ve been waiting for?” he shouted as he thrust into the corpse’s warm slit. “Hey, Da Mi? You want some big hard Johnny cock?”

  18 / Enlightenment

  Wailing and sobbing, Sydney flung herself into Da Mi’s arms.

  “I’m so sorry.” The scientist’s blouse was light and silky against Sydney’s cheek, but her voice was ragged with distress. “I feel terrible. Can you forgive me?”

  Oh Jeez, she was letting Da Mi down. Just because she’d been reminded of stuff in the past—stuff that was over. Sydney disentangled herself and wiped her face with her hands. What a feeb she was. “No—no, you told me it might be intense! I’m fine now, really, Da Mi.”

  Da Mi handed her a tissue. “The immersion must have triggered some buried trauma. Is that what happened, Sydney?”

  Sydney opened her mouth, then closed it again. If Da Mi knew how much she hated her mom, she’d probably think Sydney was way too screwed-up to trust.

  “No,” she muttered, “it wasn’t a memory. But I saw a man attacking a woman in Vancouver and I guess I could relate, ’cause I used to work near Gastown.”

  “Gastown!” Da Mi’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh dear, Sydney. I didn’t know you worked there. On the streets?”

  “No. In a hotel.” Jeez, where was this going? She didn’t come here to talk about the escort work. “It was fine, really. Nothing like . . . that.” She gestured at the goggles.

  Da Mi was still looking troubled. “I’m so sorry. I should have suggested you visit somewhere you didn’t know. But to tell the truth, some of the other red-light zones are even worse.”

  “Even worse? Da Mi, what is that program—some kind of global snuff game?”

  “It’s not a game.” Da Mi sighed heavily. “It’s real imagery, of Christmas Day last year, hacked from military satellites and edited to highlight acts of violence, misery and cruelty that were taking place all over the world. If you had gone to Africa you would have seen child soldiers being forced to have sex with each other; in Iran, victims of US chemical attacks; in Thailand, child abuse by sex tourists; in London, a homeless man being kicked to death and set on fire by a gang of teenage girls.”

  Da Mi’s voice was low and full of sorrow. Sydney stared at her small, tense face, images of the red lights on the Satviz globe flashing in her mind. “But that’s awful. Who would want to sit and watch all that? I mean, apart from some sicko.”

  “The hackers are a group dedicated to exposing abuses of power, including the violent living conditions in deliberately deprived areas. Some of them work at very high levels in military and governmental agencies. They leaked this program to various law enforcement and human rights organizations, but it quickly fell into the hands of an American media consortium called ConGlam.” Behind Da Mi, the candles glowed like cats’ eyes. “Sydney, ConGlam is GRIP’s new project partner. They gave me the Satviz package to demonstrate its gaming potential, but really, I view the content as its most important feature. Each time I enter that program I become more determined to use my scientific knowledge to help put a stop to the terrible events it depicts. I wanted you to see it because I hoped it might inspire you to join me on a special project that could bring an end to rape and murder and human misery forever.” Da Mi leaned forward slightly, her gleaming eyes fixed on Sydney.

  Sydney frowned, struggling to fit her thoughts into the neat wood and paper boxes of the latticed wall behind the candles. You thought your life was shit, but it was nothing compared to what went on all around you every day. She’d learned that in Vancouver. Her own mom was just a stupid, jealous bitch. Annie’s mom had been way worse, pimping out her eleven-year-old daughter to her dealer. And out there in the world were complete sadists, chopping people up in dungeons, torturing them just for kicks, blowing them up to make money. But you couldn’t stop them. It was just the way some people were made: selfish and cruel. People like Da Mi, sitting in her perfect house, with her perfect life, couldn’t understand that; they didn’t know that lots of people liked being bastards, would never let anyone change them.

  “But, Da Mi, it doesn’t matter if you’re rich or poor, or black or white, some people are just, I dunno, wild animals. That’s human nature, isn’t it?” Slowly the question faded from her lips, for Da Mi was beseeching her with a tender, almost radiant look.

  “Sydney, I’ve just put you through a dreadful experience. Please, let me make it up to you, and at the same demonstrate how exactly science can help change human nature. If you will allow me now to belt you into the Enlightenment Chair, I guarantee it will be the most uplifting and spiritually nurturing half-hour you’ve ever spent.”

  The scientist gestured gracefully across the anbang at the black leather sun-lounger, with its mysterious straps and wires.

  “The Enlightenment Chair?” Sydney instantly regretted the note of doubt that twanged in her voice, but Da Mi, as always, overlooked her gauche reply.

  “It combines meditation and science; Buddhism and rational inquiry,” she said. “If I had invented it I could die now, a fulfilled woman.”

  Whatever it did to your head, the Chair did look sexy, kind of like a strappy shoe. And Da Mi hadn’t been lying last time, had she?

  What the hell. “Okay,” she agreed.

  “That’s very brave of you, Sydney. You won’t regret it, I promise.”

  Sydney climbed into the chair, tugged down her skirt and adjusted the pillow behind her head, making herself comfortable. Da Mi wrapped thin black cables round her ankles and wrists, attached round sticky pads to her neck and buckled a wide belt aro
und her waist. “These are energy sensors. They’ll monitor and moderate your heart rate, balance your hormones and harmonize your qi. You could just lie in the Chair and sleep or watch TV, but for the full healing effect, you’ll need to wear the goggles again.”

  Sydney lay still as Da Mi pulled the goggles back down over her head. This time, instead of blackness, her vision was filled with a soft, pearly pink, and instead of echoey breathing a delicate melody, all bells and violins, whispered in her ears.

  “At a certain point, you’ll hear my voice asking you a few questions. Don’t try to speak; just imagine you are nodding or shaking your head and the system will pick up your intention. Okay?”

  Sydney nodded, and fell away into a beautiful pink dream.

  At first there was the calm, swoony music, all around her, and soft colors, blossoming like flowers for what felt like forever. She could barely remember the straps and belts; all she felt was a lovely light warmth and coziness, as if she were wrapped up in a huge summer duvet. Then—she didn’t know after how long—she rose and floated above the chair until she was suspended within a subtle, flowing river of pink and orange light. Swaying in this tranquility, beneath a glowing sun, she sensed a dancing movement in the distance, and soon she could see girls in long dresses swirling in the arms of laughing young men. Behind them she could make out fluttering flags on the turrets of a castle on the green flank of a hill. Bluebirds flashed above the dancers as the girls spun between the boys. The girls’ pointy features were as familiar as Sydney’s own face. They were holding pink and yellow ribbons and as the dancers drew closer, encircling her head, the ribbons wove into a tent around her, whirling with the girls’ green and blue gowns and long blonde hair into a blurry canopy of light. Lost in a weightless, candy-colored dream, her breath slowly rising and falling, Sydney knew only that she had been missing an essential element of bliss when Da Mi’s questions began.

  “Are you comfortable?”

  Da Mi was there. Da Mi knew. Da Mi cared.

  Yes. She nodded slowly.

  “Good. Are you breathing deeply?”

  Yes.

  “Lovely. Are you happy?”

  Yes. Oh yes. Yes. Yes . . .

  “Wonderful. Now, can you imagine anything that would upset you right now?”

  The question had no meaning. Upset? Slowly, Sydney shook her head, and a wave of gold rippled through around her, releasing the scent of star-gazer lilies.

  “Anything at all that would make you angry or afraid?”

  Marveling at the scent of the lilies, Sydney was baffled by the suggestion. Again, the answer was No.

  “Good—that’s very good. I’m very pleased for you, Sydney. But just to be sure, can you do something for me now?”

  Yes. Of course.

  “Sydney, please try to remember the alleyway in Vancouver, the place you visited just now—the man and woman, in the alley. Can you remember them?”

  Dimly at first, then coming into sharper focus: the image of the man in the heavy coat and the woman with the bruised face drifted into Sydney’s mind. They were walking into the blood-red alleyway, but she knew that neither of them really wanted to go there with each other. The man and the woman weren’t happy or peaceful; not like her. Not like Da Mi.

  “It’s sad, isn’t it?” Da Mi sounded compassionate. Da Mi understood.

  Yes, Sydney nodded as the man punched the woman. Very sad.

  “Is the man hurting the woman?”

  Yes. The man was holding her down and raping her. Yes.

  “How does the woman feel?”

  Oh, that was a hard place to go. Zooming in close to the woman being raped, a woman she would ignore if she saw her on the street, maybe even cross over to avoid. A scrawny, angry junky who did what she did to numb her feelings, blot out the world. Was she numb on that mattress? Was this normal for her?

  “Just open your mind, Sydney. Let her show you how she feels.”

  The man shifted, and from between the woman’s flattened breasts, a glass bubble emerged. Inside it was the image of a child, a little brown-skinned girl wearing jeans and a T-shirt and a beaded headband, dancing in a field of long grass. Was that the woman? Or her daughter? The bubble hovered over the woman’s body, like an emergency capsule leaving an empty space ship.

  Hi yi yi. Hi yi yi. Sometimes in Vancouver Sydney had heard Native people drumming and chanting from back yards or apartments. The sound came back to her now: Hi yi yi. Hi yi yi. She’d liked hearing it. Native people were strong. They were always there; they hadn’t gone away, even though white people kept trying to shoot them and poison them and take all their land. Annie had told her about it all. This woman was strong. Even if he killed her, she was stronger than this man because she was still dancing inside.

  I’m sorry I called you a hooker, Sydney said to the woman. I wish I knew your name.

  I’m sorry I’m scared of you. I wish I knew your story.

  Something eased in her chest. Was that just her feeling better, or did the woman hear her, somehow?

  “What about the man?” Da Mi coaxed. “Do you hate that man?”

  That man was very sad. Inside he was sad and angry and full of hate. No one loved that man. Someone had hurt him when he was a child. She could see the child inside his heart too, now, very clearly: a tow-headed boy with freckles and big ears, crying, and shrinking up against a wall. The man couldn’t release him into the world. He was keeping the child locked up inside him. No, she didn’t hate him. No.

  “Do you feel angry with him?”

  That was harder. Yes, she was angry with him—but not with the little boy inside him. The little boy needed love. And what was the point of everyone pouring anger into the world, like raw sewage into an ocean filled with golden fish and haunting songs? No, the man was doing a bad thing, a very bad thing, a sad and terrible thing, raising that knife and plunging it into the woman, into her chest and throat, but she wasn’t angry with him. No.

  “Do you feel afraid?”

  No. Tears began to gather in the corners of Sydney’s eyes. They slipped beneath the padded rims of the goggles and down her cheeks.

  “You feel sad?”

  Yes.

  “Just sad?”

  No.

  “What else?”

  Love. Yes, she felt love: warm, powerful, healing love.

  “Love. How beautiful. Can you give some love to the man and the woman?”

  Yes. She smiled. Yes. And out of her heart came a huge sphere of golden light, arching high up above the world, into the stratosphere and the stars, and then down again, down into the alley where it flowed through the hovering glass bubble and the dancing girl, and into the hearts of the man and the woman. Slowly, as if lifted by a great wave of sorrow and regret, the man detached himself from the woman, and fell back on the ground in a fetal position. Instantly, with a huge pulse of relief, the glass bubble burst into glittering fragments and the little girl was dancing freely in the air. As she spun and leapt, the little boy pushed his way out of the man’s chest and climbed into the air. The children didn’t touch, but for a moment they both glowed like coals. Then, in twin starbursts of light, the children disappeared and in their place two small golden birds fluttered up and up, out of the alleyway and into the sky, the red sky that was now turning pink.

  The alleyway was fading now. The amber sun was still floating above the green field. The pink and orange river was still streaming gently around her. She was drifting now into an ocean of music. She was happy, calm and full of love. Love was the answer. Love.

  “Take as long as you like coming back, Sydney.” Softly, the lounger emerged beneath her body. The music faded out, and Da Mi was stroking her hand.

  “That was incredible.” Sydney crossed her hands over her heart, and leaned toward Da Mi. They were sitting on the cushions in the center of the anbang again. “What happened to me in there?”

  “Technically speaking, the chair sends out signals that affect the serotonin receptors
in the brain,” Da Mi explained. “The pleasure this produces allows the mind to move beyond fear and anxiety, into what I would call a higher, more evolved level of consciousness. You could say that the chair fine-tunes our brain waves, or perhaps, as the inventors do, you could call it an Enlightenment Chair.”

  Sydney wanted to follow the science, but she was still trying to understand what she’d just seen and felt. “I just don’t get it. I mean, a few minutes ago I was in pieces—and then I was forgiving that man, and I think I understood that woman, how she survived, how strong she was, everything. I guess it was all just in my head. But it felt amazing. How does it work so quickly?”

  “It doesn’t normally. The chair is a German product, a meditative tool used to induce a profound state of calm. But I have discovered that when I take the honey drink before I use it, the chair not only makes it impossible to even conceive of a whole spectrum of negative emotions, it also replaces them with a euphoric sense of forgiveness. After two teaspoons of honey, you could lie in that chair and think of people you absolutely detest, but you would be unable to feel anything but love and compassion for them.”

  Sydney’s body was still singing, her mind translucent as the paper in the latticed anbang screen. Unbidden, an image of her mom dancing in the kitchen with Blaine came into soft focus in her mind. They were laughing and kissing, and then her mom turned to her. Come here, Sydney, she called, come and have a hug. Up close her mom’s face was lined but pretty; her lipstick was smudged and she smelled of menthol cigarettes. She had been happy once, Sydney remembered. Blaine had a beer in his hand. He ran the other one through Sydney’s hair. Yeah, even Blaine had been nice to her when she was little. It was only later that he changed, after she grew tits and he lost his job and started slobbing around the house and drinking all day. People were weak. Sometimes you did just have to forgive them.

  She stretched her legs. “You could be the leader of a new religion, Da Mi.”

  “No, I couldn’t.” Da Mi smoothed her skirt. “The effect is temporary. Taking regular sessions in the chair does help one aspire to a certain level of emotional detachment, but they can’t permanently alter the structure of the brain. I still feel annoyance, anger, jealousy, every day, in the usual petty ways. Even now, you’re probably wondering if you really forgive that man.”